‘Miss’ Is Such A Pathetic Word
I know you.
But I don’t know you.
I know many things.
But I don’t know much.
Who I am today, I know.
Three years back and four years on, I don’t.
I do feel.
I feel a presence behind me every now and then.
I feel a throbbing in my chest.
I feel solitude.
I feel a fair amount of nothing.
Out of nothing, I persist in feeling your influence.
Embracing it.
What else am I to do?
I have nothing physical of yours to hold.
Nothing substantial enough to take note of.
Nothing other than how I’ve perceived your existence in relation to mine.
Your words tangled with those I so easily forget to fashion around your presence.
You’ve done nothing.
I’ve done everything.
The context, the happiness, the gradual transition from adolescence to adulthood.
All fabrications of the mind I call mine.
Still, your influence persists.
Who, where could I have been without you?
Definitely not who, not where I am.
In your absence, your influence is prevalent.
For it is your inability to show which feeds my friend,
Your absence in the physical world, which prompts its advent in the psychological.
There is no doubt:
I would not be without your presence.
Without your existence.
I feel the change you’ve brought about in me.
Always.
It is constant.
Unyielding.
Brave.
Kind.
In this thought I am alone.
In this thought, I am divided.
How am I to justify who I am without you in my life?
How do I go on knowing that a force inside me has turned into a stranger?
I don’t love you.
Of that I am certain.
But I do miss you.
You, Miss.
With your misanthropy, and your propensity for misinterpretation.
Your unfounded, juvenile miseries.
Your innocuous mistakes.
Oh how I miss you, Miss.
I write this to shy away from miscommunication.
I write this because the only moments I don’t feel misunderstood are when we speak.
I write this missive because I feel nothing.
I write this missive because there is no one to talk to.
This is to nobody.
This is to you.
