I miss you.
I miss how your body used to feel, curled up against mine, the imprint of the absence of physical space.
I miss the late-night debriefs, sitting with my feet tucked under me as you drove and we discussed your mother, my mother, your work, my colleagues, all that had happened to us that week and all that would happen the following.
I miss how pedantic you were about following recipes by the book.
I miss buying you coffee before you went to work, tucking you in when you were sick, debating what to watch on the TV.
I miss celebrating your success, looking at you, being looked at, being so happy for you, and wanting to tell you that you earned all of it.
I miss our inside jokes, our secret language, the words and the phrases we used that became a lexicon of experiences we'd had, documented in strings of consonants and vowels.
I miss saying goodnight and good morning.
I miss placing your shoes next to mine in the hallway.
I miss the nape of your neck, the bumps on your ears, your hand on my thigh, my hand on your back.
I miss showers together, walks together, reading in bed together.
I miss you.
