I miss the smell of the back of your neck, warm and sweet with your delicate sweat. The curve of your lips, full and tense with the worry that threaded through you. Lying in your bed, t-shirt clad and dreaming of our futures, a cliche on display.
I miss your scars, shiny and raised flesh, they gave your beauty a lurid touch. Amusing on a girl without a lurid bone in her body. It made the locals fear you, the way you lived within your skin and made it clear that it did not belong to them.
I miss you, not just the parts I dissect into nostalgia. I miss the casual, accidental ways we hurt each other. I miss the quiet between us. I miss the little looks between us, the world that was just ours. Broken and mended and awkward in spots, and ours.
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