Sappy, Sappy, Sappy
I miss your silky voice,
the way you gracefully sang poems
without even singing at all. The way you smiled,
when you told me you had written something,
something just for me,
and that you hoped I would like it.
I always loved your pieces.
I miss being your muse.
I miss the touch
of your milky skin. How you would quiver
while my hands washed over you until goosebumps
would erupt all over your soft, beautiful body,
and you would laugh.
I miss the certainty in your eyes,
when you would tell me you loved me,
right before you gave me a soft,
The way you used to reach for my hand,
but you always held it wrong,
and so we would awkwardly fumble until it was right again.
We always fumble
until it’s right.
I miss waiting for ages
in an old theatre,
right by your side as we watched and watched
as the people danced under the lights.
Your head on my shoulder,
trying to catch the sleep you missed the nights before,
like it was a butterfly, but you lacked a net.
I miss the silent nights,
watching The Office,
or Weeds, as we laughed
any troubles we had
right on away. It would always
be cold, but I’d leave feeling warm.
Most of all,
I miss your sunshine smile.