I’m not over you.

 

I don’t know what it is about you or what you did to make me feel this way but every time I think about you or look at you, I miss you, and I hate you.

 

I hate how I miss the times that we kissed and your mouth tasted of stale cigarettes and evergreen mouthwash.

I hate how I miss the mousse leftover on my hands from when I combed my fingers through your dark brown hair.

I hate how I miss the first time I heard Ignition and you sang right to me in the dorkiest but cutest way.

I hate how I miss your square jaw that always seemed to have a five o’clock shadow on it no matter the time of day.

I hate how I miss the small smudges on your glasses leftover from your dirty hands constantly fixing them on your face.

I hate how I miss the wrinkles in your clothes because you rarely cared to wash any of them.

I hate how I miss the way you held your smoke, as if it were oxygen and you had been under water for a week.

I hate how I miss the scabs on your knees from where you fell every other time you road your board.

I hate how I miss you playing smash bros and yelling bye every time you landed a punch.

 

But most of all, I hate how I miss the way you touched me, in the most nonchalant but electric sense that out of everyone, even you, only I could feel.

 

I hate how I miss you,

 

Every time I smoke,

Every time I board,

Every time I text,

Every time I write,

Every time I kiss,

Every time I drive,

 

And every time I hear Sleepyhead.

 

I miss you, and I hate you.