I don’t miss you.

Nowadays I don’t miss you the way I used to miss you. My hand still curls around the soft pillow besides my side, looking to touch the soft strands of your copper curls, only to realise there is nothing to hold on to, but I don’t miss you as I used to before. Sometimes I catch myself smiling at the little things you used to love, like putting heaps of sugar in the always too strong coffee or eating cake just for the sake of the chocolate icing, but I don’t miss you like before. The seasons change and I always visit the place we used to meet up at, that old park with the rusty swings and broken benches, I sit down on the one we claimed was ours, the old chipping paint still showing the heart enclosed by our intials, that you made with my then new keychain, but still I don’t miss you now as I used to miss you before. It’s winter now, and the beautiful snowfall reminds me of the times we laughed and played in the snow, till we were breathless and rosy cheeked, then quietly sipped our hot chocolate wrapped up in the too big ridiculous red sweater you knitted, I still wear it now, it still is too big for me but perfect for us both as you claimed once, but I don’t miss you the way I missed you before. Everytime I open the wooden box, full of keepsakes and old crinkled letters, stained and dog eared, there in every scratchy scrawl and the loppy letters I have your words, you know, you were one of a kind, my dear, insisting on writing letters just because it was more romantic, you always were a goof. But how I treasure them now, each word bringing back your smile, each I love you, each I miss you bringing back the precious moments where we lived for a lifetime. It is like I hear you when I read them, hoping that you will respond to my whispered echoes of your name, pretend that we are together and you are laughing at me or scowling at the particularly dreadful thing I had done that day, or just you are simply there, wrapped up in my arms, the too big sweater keeping us warm; or with me again when I sit and read on our claimed spot, on that rusty old bench, carved with our heart promising forever, or with me when a kid accidently throws a snowball, and I turn around hoping that you would be ready with a snowball of our own, or with me when my hand reaches out across on the other side of the bed, so cold in so many days, just wishing that for once the hand curls around the lively copper strand like it used to, or with me when I reach across for the remote, expecting you to fight me for what we were going to watch. But you know what; I don’t miss you as I used to before, how can I ? When you are there in everything I do, in everything I am and always will be, how can I miss you, when you haven’t gone, when the pillow besides my side still faintly smells of your fragrance, when I still have the keychain that carved our always, tell me love, how can I miss something, when I don’t want to move on?

-Wings of Delight


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