I Don’t Know If I Miss Her

I don’t know if I miss her
or if I miss who I was
when I was with her
(at least at first, not so much
at the end because that guy
was kind of an ass
and that’s pretty much who I am now)
or if I miss touching and being touched
or saying “I love you” and
hearing the same and knowing
that it was in that romantic way
or if I miss some romanticized
idealized fantasized picture of a relationship
that I have shipped and shaped and edged
and inked and colored and painted into
something unrecognizable within the bounds
of human experience, but
goddamn it if I’m not missing something
and if it wasn’t such a damned cliche
and if there wasn’t so much to do
I would probably drink a bottle of wine
and pound out songs on my typewriter
into the wee hours of the morning
until I lose myself because then maybe
I could find myself and then
maybe I wouldn’t be missing.