I miss you (well, I haven’t always, but I always will). I miss the way you would mumble meanly; words entwining like vines climbing the old house, crumbling it leisurely and eating it away with time (that was you too, that house). Slurring about the correlation between words like salve and salvation.

I miss the way you would act smug when I failed.(Honestly, I hadn't reckoned on how uncomfortable it would be. I once had a friend that said that he figured the worst part of failure is having to explain to acquaintances why exactly you failed, and he's right.) I miss the way I would resent you when you reminded me to signal when I turned. “You have to wake up to the fact that people need to know where you’re going.”

I miss trivial things you said or did that don't even matter; things that only seem important now because they have put on too-big high-heeled shoes and pretend to be metaphorical and so they echo on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on. I miss the way you were always angry. I miss how weak you were in the end. I miss how you said in those last few days, "I wish it was you that was dying, or that I would hurry up and be exempt from your company." I sit and soak up the cruel flavour of it. I remember fondly how you used to hate yourself, and me.



I miss you all wrong.