When I say I miss you, I feel it in my throat. It is a cold stone that slides from the back of my tongue and clunks into my chest. I am choking on what I have lost. Isn't that what missing is? Loss? Like when the TV remote has gone missing and you squeeze your hands in between couch cushions in a desperate search for it. You have lost it, even though you always put it in the same place - on top of the pile of books that teeters atop a narrow coffee table. Missing is the unexplainable lose of something. And although you will find another way to turn on your television, you will still wonder where the remote is as you watch bad reality shows and continue to search for it.
I do not know how I lost you and so I go on missing you. And its mornings like these - when a cold draft seeps in through my old windows, but it is the sun's bright rays that wake me - when I miss you most. I dig in between my cushions, hoping I'll find you in my misplaced memories, but it is all loose change. Something useful, but not what I was looking for, and not what I need.
