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miss you is like an ache in my neck.

i swear i wouldn’t go down this road,

the winding trail inside my brain that leads to a lot of too-dry eyes

and a break in my voice, but then i swear about a lot of things,

dropping my keys at night, tripping over your shoes when i’m coming home,

your heart supple against the windows of our bedroom, illuminated when cars drive by.

blood is a funny thing, cells and plasma and yours is all over the floor, all over the inside of my lungs, pressing on my windpipe and telling me that i should have turned back and left that terminal.

i am swallowing my own tongue in hopes that i won’t have to say things like goodbye or i’ll be back soon or even i love you, because they all sound like i’m sorry,

and that’s never who we’ve been.

unrelenting, aggressive, passionate until my temples throb, until all my fingers can reach for is your smile, plucking it from your mouth and keeping it close,

our stomachs are still sore in ways i can’t even begin to write down, maybe it was because we missed dinner again, or drank too fast, maybe it’s because we both grew up to love the world but not ourselves, maybe it’s all we know

this plane ride is a long drawn out reflection of my own consciousness,

and my neck aches, and i miss you, and i knew if i were in the deep concave of your arms, the ache would go away, you could make it go away, and then i realize, 10,000 feet above ground,

that you are the neck, you are the ache, and all i’m left with is i love you,

and jesus, i know we shouldn’t go down this road,
but that’s never who we’ve been.