I learned to love you best when i learned to miss you,

but obviously by then I was too late

to tell you how much I love to watch

your eyelids twitch as you pretend

to sleep just to see if I'll kiss your forehead as you're busy

faking dreams.

But I never did for fear of waking you.

And you always waited, expected even, and never got that kiss.

Looking back now, I think

the emptiness I feel outweighs the annoyance

at your petty quibbles

about kisses and soda flavors and body weight and scent of aftershave...

well I guess that list goes on.

But when I try to list all the things I miss

(enough to make me imagine all sorts of bodily aches)

I can only think of one thing.

And that is the way your fingers (the ones you always called pudgy and short)

tenderly, slenderly lace around mine

Because when i choose to be honest on those nights when I can't fake dreams,

I wish I could hold your hand.