What I Miss About You

Nearly a decade has passed since I last touched you, heard you say my name, or felt your fingertips caress my skin. We’ve both moved on. It would be strange if we hadn’t, after all of this time. Our lives are completely separate yet I still feel intimately woven with yours; with your mind, your soul. 
Last night, I found an old photo of us and I touched myself while looking at it. While looking at you. It was urgent, visceral. Even at a distance, thousands of miles and cities between us, you have the power to turn me on. I feel desired when I think about how I used to be yours, how you used to stroke my hair, tell me you loved me, hold my hand, wash my shoulders in the shower, beads of water clinging to my damp skin, soap trailing down my back and into the drain. Washing away like we washed away.
Is it wrong to miss you?
I miss inhaling the scent of your skin as I’d bury my face into the side of your neck. I miss tracing invisible lines down the scars that detail your body. And how we’d collapse together after sex, breathing heavy, bodies weak and sweaty—I miss that, too. I miss the way your sleepy smile would be the first thing I saw when I woke up and how we’d cuddle on the couch to watch a movie at night, even though it wasn’t really big enough for the both of us. I miss the way my heart would throb the whole walk home, knowing I’d be seeing you sooner with every step. Most of all, I miss the way you loved me. Quickly, passionately, with abandon. You loved me for me: my dimple, my giggle, my crescent moon tattoo. The whole me.
And I broke your heart. 
I guess you wouldn’t have loved that part of me—the cruel, callous side. If you hate me, even just a little bit, I wouldn’t blame you. It was my fault that things deteriorated between us. I’ll take full responsibility for that. You didn’t do anything wrong. I’ve often wondered what I could have done differently. It’s not an excuse, but I was young, reckless, void of remorse. I should have known better; I was only thinking of myself. It was selfish. I hope that in the last eight years, I’ve learned how to be a better person. I hardly recognize the girl I used to be. I don’t know her. You do. Or did.
I’m sorry.
For so long I’ve been content living with the buried memory of us. Do you ever think of me? When someone brings up my name, do you wonder what we could have been? I’d like to think that I cross your mind every now and then; when you’re washing your shoulders in the shower, when you go to that cozy bistro we loved, or pass by the bench we adolescently carved our initials into. Our spots. Do they still exist? Or have they faded, disappeared, gone forever, like the connection we used to share? I wish I could hold you one more time. I wonder if either of us knew that the last time we made love it would really be the last time. Would we have done things differently?
In another life, we might’ve had a house by the beach, a couple of kids, traditions, routines. I might have chosen a wedding dress that skimmed the sea as we walked along the shoreline together, our future spreading out ahead of us, glistening in the early evening glow. Maybe you would have surprised me with an unruly bunch of cosmos and bluebells when you found out I was pregnant. Maybe we’d have one or two dogs, a comfortable existence, palpable devotion. Lazy weekend mornings spent laying with our limbs intertwined and our coffee going cold. Just us. In the habitual life that we were never supposed to have.
Sometimes it’s nice to imagine.
It’s possible that we will never see each other again. We might never cross paths or feel the electricity coursing through our bodies as we embrace. It’s also possible that you wouldn’t like the new me. Have you changed, too? What I miss about you might not exist anymore. I wouldn’t know and may never know. It’s a strange thing to consider. How can two people whose lives were once so intrinsically linked have nothing to do with each other?
When you love someone as much as I loved you, I think that they’ll always be a part of you. Do you feel that way? Don’t be a stranger. That’s what you said to me when we broke up. But we could never be strangers. Strangers don’t know how it felt to have you inside me, holding me, rhythmically loving me, accepting me. Before we languished. It would be easier to be strangers. Then, perhaps, I wouldn’t still feel butterflies whenever you happen to appear in my mind. I wouldn’t know how it felt to be completely in love with you. I wouldn’t know you.
What do you miss about me?

ᴛʜᴇ ᴇɴᴅ