the missing

[muse]

Missing him is sharp, sweet pain that sinks a shiv between my ribs when a kiss would suffice. Sometimes, I expect him to walk into my workspace, freckled and strong, his hips hard and sturdy in his Carhartts. Miles, time, and money separate us, not the content of our hearts. He aches for the spaces that I fill. I know this intimately, just as I already know exactly where his eyes crinkle when they smile. Knowing this doesn’t make it easier. He’s words written on my insides and manifested in the slight curl of my grin when he whispers what I am thinking, making echoes of our feelings, an echo of heart-rhythm and soul-pulse.

Little Miss J