I miss your golden locks drizzling down

your back, like waterfalls of caramel syrup,

where my hands are the two scoops of

vanilla ice cream, slowly melting against you.

I don’t miss your shrills ringing in my ears

as you pushed my hands away, a mask

of distress consuming your lovely face,

eyes flickering with speckles of anger.

I miss sitting on our couch together,

how your manifesting brown roots lock

against my neck, how the words from our lips

fade into the tranquil air as we fall asleep.

I don’t miss that night on involuntary repeat

in my mind, when I planned to make you mine

forever, but ended up dropping to my knees

as I watched you turn on your black heel,

your curled strands disappearing from my reach.