when you miss their hands on your thighs, but not the way they never called you before going to bed; it’s not real. when you miss their fingers through your hair, but not how they stayed up playing video games all night instead of lying next to you; it’s not real. when you miss the longing stares shared at 3am on their tiny bed, but not the crease around their eyes as they tried to say sorry for the thousandth time; it’s not real. when you miss their legs wrapped around your waist, but not their pleading voice as you walked out their door; it’s not real.
it’s not real. it’s not real.
it’s not real if you just miss their skin pressed against yours, but fail to remember the many nights you spilled your guts out onto the bathroom floor; the nights you held them because the world was caving in and they looked at you with soulless eyes; the words that you threw like daggers and your shared bed became a battle ground and your love bites turned into defeated wounds; it’s not real. stop convincing yourself that it ever was.
