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.