What I Miss

I miss the way our feet curled up together, listening to the submarines under the bridge late at night, your body close to mine, your heat close to mine. I miss the dance we got caught up in at the park on the river, with our harmonies blend- ing and bending, the jingles on your dress cupping my ears. I miss the year we cast fishing rods in the blue salty ocean, and licked the crystals from the poles when they’d dried, and you tasted like the sunshine. I miss the pressure of your knuckles on my hip bone and the soft inner lining of your fav- orite jacket where my hands always managed to slide, shy. I miss feeling my adrenaline streaking naked through my veins whenever you approached me from behind, that split-second startle skin- ing me alive. I miss the tears that slid gently from the corn- ers of my almond-shaped eyes, and the way those tears spoke of sobs without any words at all, none. I miss feeling the way I felt about you because now I am empty, and the void where you used to live only marks a time in my dusty past, a shell of a memory.