i miss the drives in your car: the books in my hand, the taste of you left on my lips–reading you stories inbetween kisses, tracing your hands with my fingertips–bookmarking pages with leftover twenty dollar bills and lipstick tubes

stolen glances at stop signs
wondering when it was that you actually became mine

i miss the sound of the engine; the feel of tarmac beneath the ground you moved, the poems leftover on my tongue while i traced the parts of you you told me you didn’t understand how to love

i miss the way my laughter slid inside of yours: the way my smile followed your name–the way you transcribed your childhood through your fingertips because you were too afraid of your lips

i miss the me that forged from you mixed with mine

i wonder what you think of those nights that simmered into mornings; the days that passed like the way you looked at me when i didn’t

you tell me you love me now like i loved you then

but fairytales don’t last and part of me wonders what part of this was ever happy if i never asked for an after

part of growing older means the people you love become people you loved

part of growing older means eventually everyone who left are the ones you forgot you asked to leave

part of growing older means being gracious enough to thank you for the memories
but experienced enough to not make the same mistake
twice