The misadventures of the heart and sometimes, the stomach.

Miss You.

It’s been too long but there you stood in the flesh.

For a moment suspended in time – I stood and stared at you from across the street.

The way those skinny jeans cling onto your legs, more tightly than a devout Christian to the Lord. The way the cigarette hangs so nonchalantly from your fingertips. The dark caramel of your skin partly illuminated by your phone screen.

You couldn’t have been more beautiful than that exact moment.

I could have sworn that you only looked up because you heard the pounding of my heart despite all that traffic.

And when you kissed me, god when you folded me into that me-shaped impression that I’d left behind four months ago – it felt as if I’d never left.


Did you miss me? he murmured into my hair.


Miss you?

Miss you is an understatement. Miss you is an insult, a mockery. It’s a pirated version, a cheap imitation, a parody.

It doesn’t come close to describing the days I’ve had to count down until we could meet again. It has no clue about the lonely nights.


I spent every waking moment looking for you, searching for you in the eyes and arms of strangers.

But none of them fit quite right; their weight and hands felt wrong, their lips don’t taste quite the same.

I find their endearments recycled, forced, predictable. I find their tongues and fingers inarticulate – that though they are saying all the right words, it still sounds wrong.


Always I would wonder about what you’re up to, thinking that a man like you wouldn’t spend many nights alone.

Always a finger hovering over your name but also always stopping myself short from dialling because I know how much you hated cliches.

Mindlessly swiping left left left – not because what was on this conveyor belt of selfies isn’t appealing

Turned down hopeful hearts – not because there was anything particularly wrong with them

it’s just that they weren’t you.


So the answer is No. I was a lot of things but I didn’t just miss you.

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