I think I miss you.
And this is not a good thing.
And this is not an honest thing.
This is not a thing that leaves me lying peacefully in my bed, while she sleeps beside me, our joined hands clasped tight, and our joined breath condensing on the ceiling to fall in droplets on our faces when the air cools.
This is not a thing that lets me kiss her with open lips.
This is a thing that fills me with bitter taste.
And makes me hope, that this is just the result of premenstrual syndrome.
A particularly bad bout.
And makes me hope,
that this is not a true thing.
This is a thing that ruins my grammar, ruins my peace less mind.