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.
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.
I do not want to miss you,
and this awkward sensation only reminds
me of the times in which I felt
similarly mixed emotions: ending
wanderlust adventures to return
to the warmth of family; running over roadkill
again, just to make sure it’s dead;
letting a former lover pretend
they care once more (pretending to believe them).
I am tired of missing you,
and all it feels like
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.)