Poetry

What is it that you mean when you say that you miss me?
Is it the way I make you feel? Is it the way your life flows when I am around?

Is it having someone around who shares views with you?
Is it having someone to rely on to pick up the phone?
What is it that you mean when you say that you miss me?

I am far from home, flowing through forests, cities, towns, villages, trails, water.
I am far from home, finding new places of joy everyday, 

And solidifying old knowledge.
I sometimes think I miss the comfort of knowing everyone around me. 

Of laughing in safety with people who see me. 

Safety is but a fallacy, and maybe no one really sees us. 

Or everyone has the ability to see us.
I miss the comfort of knowing where I will wake up, who I will see, what I will do, when I will eat. 

But I do not miss the headache that comes with that comfort. 

The depression that comes with predictability. 

The inner screaming that comes from living the hum-drum life. 

It never felt right to me. 

The only thing that felt right is the love. 

And that is something held onto. 

Memories are not real, yet feelings remain reality. 

Love is reality. 

Therefor, you’re still part of my reality.
And I am still part of yours.

I miss your mind, your laughter, the way you smelled and moved, 

But for now, I cannot miss it more than that. 

I am running from the demons I’ve been colliding with for years. 

The demons I’ve been confronting relentlessly, as though struggle led to peace.

Would you keep running into a brick wall?
That’s what I have been doing. And now I am not. 

I am running from that wall that won’t come down, 

The wall that thought it’d save me from the edge of the Earth. 

Maybe it did. Maybe it will. 

Maybe I’m on the edge right now. And I am alive.
What is it you mean when you say that you miss me?
Maybe we missed each other when I was around.