They talk about missing people as if it's something they only feel, like the scratching and melting of pulling on old sweater. But it's less like only feeling and more like living with an ache that becomes as much a part of you as your fingers or how your eyes disappear when you laugh or the freckles that find your face on a sunny day.
With features, you can pinpoint each one, and so it is with missing. Wednesday morning and I'm missing you, Thursday afternoon and I'm missing you, Friday all day and I'm still missing you. You carry the culmination of the moments, in small and simple ways, and in the end it didn't matter if they were good or bad, just that they were and for once, that was enough.
Characterized by when: when he made jokes and you laughed, when your favorite smell of was lavender and grass, when you listened to the same album hundred times and swore you'd never get tired of it. Marked by how: you picked seashells while the sun set, he drove to a sleepy town with you and listen to Coldplay, you wore his sweatshirt smelling like rain. And more often than not, it's by what it's missing: your favorite sushi, voice at the end of the line, someone to understand your movie references, a way to say I love you without any words.
I'm missing you so badly.