I am tired of missing you.
I am tired
of the feeling of missing
you, like sandpaper across bare skin,
like the scrape of fingernail across chalkboard.
I do not want to miss you.
There ought to be a word
for that, for the peculiar sensation
of not wanting to want,
of trying to wish away (or wash away)
emotion. Instead I’m left
without language, only the shadow
imprints left by other
feelings, other actions, other memories: ending
wanderlust adventures to return
to loving family; running over roadkill
again, just to make sure it’s dead;
letting a former lover pretend
that they still care (pretending to believe them).
I am tired of missing you,
and all I can think
is that the closest feeling to this
is the beating of my bare feet
across asphalt, blazing in the sun.
I accept it, and it burns.
I walk faster, and it burns.
I run away.
(It still burns.)
Okay, I like this better. I feel like it transitions better, is a little less awkward. I didn’t like the way the third stanza was in the earlier draft.