I am homesick for your skin. I am nostalgic for the words you gave me; the way I read them over and over again, engraving them onto my skin in the same blue ballpoint pen I used to write poetry about your eyes. I am reminiscent of the times when all it took to make me feel good about myself was your smiles, and the moments when our laughter coincided. I miss when we both could sense the butterflies in each other’s stomachs as we sat side by side, earphones in between our faces as we slowly inched them closer after every song. My hand still knows the feeling of your fingers, and the way your grip on my heart felt when you said that you loved the way I paint my sunsets. I am thinking of that day you walked next to me and were too afraid to hug me goodbye, so that night you texted me saying you look forward to every hour we spend together, even if it’s just sitting side by side listening to a playlist consisting of songs that had lyrics we read too deeply into. I remember you sending me the songs you listen to late at night on replay, and every time I hear those songs on the radio now, I smile, but I mostly just miss the way you tried to sing along, slightly off-key, but the way you looked at me was so on-point. The way I look at you now is unaccompanied by fluttering insects, but I can still feel my mind floating away, dreaming of a time that could’ve been, should’ve been, would’ve been. But you stopped glancing back at me. And your earphones stopped coming out during the hours we spent in the same room. And you chose a different seat when you walked in. And my hands were too full of worries to notice.

So I sing along to forgotten lyrics late at night and wish that these words still meant something to you.