Uncomfort (draft 3)

Uncomfort (I am tired of missing you.)

I am tired of missing you.
I am tired
of the feeling of missing
you, like sandpaper across exposed 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)
anger, frustration, love. Instead I’m left
without language, only the similar 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
they care, again (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.

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2 thoughts on “Uncomfort (draft 3)

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