if there are worse things than longing for you, then i am blessed that this is my cross and i bear it so proudly. my days, which have been so empty, are filled almost entirely by your absence. i miss your voice and your laughter, and the way your eyes smiled at the corners whenever i managed to surprise you. i bury these things in pockets i don't have, where my hands cannot reach them afterwards.
i keep your kisses warm, stitched upon my skin. your words are stapled to the roof of my mouth, your name written on the back of my throat. i can taste all of your excuses when i swallow. i wash it all down with time, teaspoons of nostalgia mixed in. la douleur exquise, they call it.
if there are worse things than longing for you, then i am cursed, for i suffer an affliction to which there is no cure, though there are far more deadly poisons out there. your name, which has brought me such joy, has a sweet taste and a bitter texture. this longing that brings the ocean to my eyes and a crisp taste of autumn in the wake of summer, has your eyes, and your shape.
if there are worse things than longing for you, then i am both blessed and cursed that you have been mine to love, and mine to miss. blessed that i could call you mine; cursed that i am yours, still.
