I miss you.

I miss him.
I miss the person I knew.

But you were never there.
Being homesick
with nowhere to call home.

I miss my husband.

My imagined lover.

I miss the false sense of knowing.
I miss everything.

I miss you.
I miss us.
I miss the space I was living in.

I miss myself— the softer version.
I'm so tired now.

I could be light with you—
I thought so...
How does two years hurt so much—
an injury a hundred years old.
The thing I miss the most
is your stomach in the small of my back
in time with your breathing.

I don't know where to hold those moments.
Where in my body do I bury them?

Where do I bury you now that you're gone?