When I miss you I think about the stars. Although we're miles  away and you have probably forgotten about me, just as I told you to, I miss you frequently. I sleep out under the stars and look at them for hours. I imagine them reflecting a glance upon you, even though you can't see them. I know it's day time where you are. I wish it was day time for me. Even knowing you might be eating cereal or jogging simultaneously to me would be a refreshing breath of day. Instead we're stuck on two different sides of the world in two ways: Geographically and mentally. Mentally because I was never completely there for you; while you adventured I was immured in my ever active mind completely unaware of what I had. Although banal it's true, you don't know what you've got until it's gone. So I sit here on my own side of the world, my only company the stars, repeating this platitude to myself or to the stars I don't know. Or maybe I'm hoping these bright sky lights are a telegraph to you, looking upon you as I wish I could. Maybe as I sleep under these occult beings of gaseous heat I envision myself in eternal night and day with you. Then I start to miss you again so I look back up the stars, my holy distraction.