I don't know when I'm supposed to miss you anymore.
The first few days, for certain.
Perhaps at fleeting moments in massing months,
but now?
Now must be a peculiar moment
to think of you and all your meager imperfections.
You are a splinter in my thumb.
Not in my heel, nor my toe,
I don't feel you stabbing me with every step.
But your absence resides in my thumb,
and I can feel it when I touch things,
fiddle with them and pick them up.
Not everything reminds me of you,
which is just fine, since I don't need to be reminded.
These gaps of time,
drawn-out and empty,
are the turned-out pockets
I have saved for you.
The first few days, for certain.
Perhaps at fleeting moments in massing months,
but now?
Now must be a peculiar moment
to think of you and all your meager imperfections.
You are a splinter in my thumb.
Not in my heel, nor my toe,
I don't feel you stabbing me with every step.
But your absence resides in my thumb,
and I can feel it when I touch things,
fiddle with them and pick them up.
Not everything reminds me of you,
which is just fine, since I don't need to be reminded.
These gaps of time,
drawn-out and empty,
are the turned-out pockets
I have saved for you.
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
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