you told me when you were twelve, you got your appendix out
you lifted your shirt and showed me a faded scar above your hip
i ran my fingers along the marred skin
and you laughed and said it tickled
acting like missing a piece of you felt like nothing

you were my missing piece
i only felt whole when we were together
when you breathed, so did i
i felt certain even our hearts beat the same
so i bared my soul and gave away pieces of me to you

when you said you were leaving you promised
we’d meet again, and everything would be the same
but how long has it been since then?
hours, days, years—time is fluid when it spills through my fingers
because my hands are small and you aren’t here to hold them

you were my missing piece
but this time, you stayed missing
you felt like a car crash in my ribs
shards of metal and glass stuck in my soul
while i breathed smoke in my apartment, alone

i got drunk on a miasma of grief
and burned my throat with memories
i looked for anything that reminded me of you
i did anything to bring you back to me
and the memory of you just
occupied the space between my heart and my brain

but just last week i caught a glimpse of you on the train we used to take
with a new lover on your arm and dimples on your cheeks
you showed her the appendix scar above your hip
and when she touched it, i could read your lips
when you laughed and said it tickled
i felt numb

now the space between my heart and my brain
has a sign that says ‘vacancy'
because although you were my missing piece
i guess i wasn’t yours