Sometimes.

I think about you sometimes. On those humid mornings when people are waking up and I can't sleep. Or when I dig through the seat and find that stick of lip balm I should have thrown away two springs ago. I miss not having to say anything, or talking without worrying about much, or having regular sex. Maybe I knew it'd be over someday, but it never felt like the last time. Even when it was the last time, I remember the taste of beer and cigarettes and the smell of sheets and you. Sometimes between books or in boxes of old things I find you looking at me feverishly muttering into a glass of wine or playing your slightly out of tune guitar. Sometimes in convincing dreams my bed is not a cold crash landing, but a warm sanctuary from chaos. I don't miss you, and that scares me more than being alone.