What I meant when I said I miss you.

How do I say I miss you
not sweetly,
not like a lullaby brushing the dark,
but like a scream stitched in silk
so it slips beneath your ribs
before you even know you're bleeding?

I want my absence to kiss you cruel,
to pull at your spine
when you're halfway through smiling.
I want you to turn,
suddenly hollow,
in a room full of laughter
because the ghost of me
just grazed your throat.

I don't want you to remember me fondly.
I want the memory
to bite.

Let the thought of my name
press to your neck
like warm steel…
beautiful, sharp, and mercifully slow.

Miss me the way fire misses the skin
with longing, yes,
but also with a hunger
to consume.

Let the night punish you
with soft things we never said.
Let the sheets confess
how cold they’ve become
without my shadow tangled in yours.

How do I say I miss you
in a way that ruins your appetite?
That leaves the wine tasting like regret,
the mirror echoing
what you refused to feel?

I want your heart to ache,
not gently
but like mine does:
savage, silent,
and smiling.

Maybe then…
only then…
you’ll taste the shape of my absence
and finally know
what I meant
when I said
I miss you.