I don’t miss you, I miss who you pretended to be,
and since pretending isn’t real- I miss nothing at all.
I haven’t changed my number, yet subconsciously wait for your call.
You see, I thought I was a dreamer, until my dream was deferred.
I thought I was a poet, until your presence created my words.
But if that was your representative, imitation of what you knew I wanted to see,
I cannot miss ‘YOU’ and who you pretended to be.
But I miss me. I miss me before I knew that my dream could exist,
I miss being naive, I miss me being kissed.
A sincere embrace that now has become a mirage,
the colored stain glass now a tainted collage.
I thought I was awake, but I realize it was a dream,
and even in my nightmares I’m forbidden to scream.
My mouth is open, yet silent,
my body shaking like thunder. Violent-ly…
I don’t miss you… I guess I miss me.