This insane
and illogical longing
for something
that doesn’t exist, 
that never existed
outside of phone lines
and bus tickets.
Like you died
or something.
People ask me that–
if you died
because this loss
is the permanent kind,
the kind that lingers
long after the whispers
in the dark
have ceased,
long after the funeral pyre
has turned to ash.
It’s like your heart
has stopped beating
but you live on
in this vacuum of denial
and tethers
and beauty
that only I can see.
This harness
that traps your being,
ties it down
without hope
for escape,
it is my anchor
that holds me to this reality
I’ve created
where I write about wanting you
to miss me,
and you actually do.

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