Sometimes, I miss you so much my stomach hurts. It aches from all the laughter I haven’t laughed.
I miss talking to you. Hearing your voice, when I call to tell you this “amazing, super cool, awesome” thing that neither of us will remember tomorrow.
I miss knowing that if I died suddenly, you’d be one of the first to know, because I wouldn’t be picking up the phone.
I miss knowing that if I died, you’d miss me even more.
I miss hearing about your day. I miss telling you about mine.
I miss embellishing stories for you.
I miss distracting myself from something awful by thinking about how I’ll make you laugh about it later.
I miss hearing your voice when I’m bored.
I miss hearing your voice when I’m excited.
I missing having a “you” and “your side of things”. I’m tired of thinking in “I”s and “Me”s.
I miss discussing old things with you. And finding out new things through you.
I miss feeling like the world could be our oyster – as soon as we got around to it.
I miss asking you what you thought of something, anything – and knowing what you’d say, outrageous and bitchy, because you knew it would make me laugh.
And every time I miss you, I remind myself of all the reasons I must miss you.