Missing you on a Saturday Morning

9/18/10

I miss you abstractly

like an idea I once had

laying in bed

before sleep overtook me

and it got lost

somewhere in my dreams.

I miss you

like I miss Halloween candy,

after I realized I was too old

for trick-or-treating.

I miss you

like I miss the autumn leaves

when it's April and

the flowers are blooming.

I miss you

like I miss the deep-seated cold

of a January night

while at the beach

in August.

I miss you

like I miss all the books of my childhood

still on my bookshelf,

within reach,

yet I never touch them.

I miss you

like I miss the pine tree in my backyard

the one with the view of the cemetery,

the one my brother used to climb,

(cheating I called it)

in the middle of our games of tag hide-n-seek.

I miss you

like I miss all of my wasted days

all of my wasted time.

I miss you

like I miss childhood.

Mostly remembering the good times

but with the nagging feeling

I was miserable sometimes.

I miss you

like I miss all of the books I left at home,

with a fleeting pang

that is soon gone.

I miss you

like I've forgotten

who you are,

how you hurt me,

all the time we shared

who we were.

And it comes back to me laying in bed,

seven-thirty on a Saturday morning,

with the marching band playing

Lady Gaga in the background

and I realize how much

I've been missing you.