I really don't miss you, I swear

I’m tired of writing tales of longing

I hate how I miss you
miss him
miss her
miss myself

Like yesterday was better
because it’s tinged
in the rose-light of memories
and smoke

I miss how everything used to be easy
how we’d take long drives to no where
just because
like every street and avenue
was an adventure waiting to happen

I miss how we’d talk for hours
stay up all night if we wanted to
discussing poetry and philosophy
with no thought of tomorrow’s hangover

I miss banning you from playing
shit music on my stereo
fighting over the CD’s
after you’d put it on it anyway
the moment I walked out of the room

I miss how you used to get high in my bathroom
I miss how I’d pretend not to notice
the track marks on the back of your legs
because I was too stoned to fight
and smoking up didn’t make me any less
of a hypocrite when you worshipped the needle
and I worshipped the bong

I miss the way you’d say
I wrote the things you didn’t know how to say
like my hand was a mouthpiece to your soul

But let’s be honest here
the way things were
aren’t as good as I remember them

Because I don’t miss
your long silences
that fucked with my head
because you couldn’t find the words
to fill the void of my insecurities

I don’t miss
the way you’d just leave
take off for months at a time
without so much as a “see you later”
rocking up at my door like
time was meaningless
and we could pick up where we left off
(though most of the time we could)

I don’t miss your violence
my head still filled with memories
of the day I had to call the cops
because you took one too many drugs
and reality bent so far back it snapped
in two, and you couldn’t tell
the sky from the ocean anymore
with birds in your head and demons in your bed

So yeah, I’m tired of writing tales of longing
after I’d promised myself
you were dead and gone
before you show up all smiles
and compliments and sanity
recognising me under the late night shadows
of a street corner after I’d run to the shops
for cigarettes
like the universe wasn’t quite done with us yet

And now I’m falling all over myself
wondering if you remember how much I loved you
as I wait for a text that never comes
after I gave in and messaged you
asking if maybe we could catch up
sometime soon

© Indie Adams 2015