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I miss you

I miss you like I miss snow in winter, when its slowly getting cold and people are mumbled in their thick and cosy cotes. I miss you like I miss the thunder after a flash struck the sky and like I miss the rain after a storm that passed by. I miss you like I miss salt on French fries, and vinegar on salat leaves. I miss you like the missing cookie, when I order a coffee. I miss you like I sometimes miss the music in my ears, when I left my earphones at home. How I miss the caffeine in the morning, when I got up too late, to brew myself a cup of coffee. I miss you when I listen to your music, while trying to figure out what genre discovery might have been your next one. I miss you like I miss a fir on Christmas eve, notwithstanding that we could buy one, but it’s somehow just not the same anymore. I miss the flickering candle light on the 24th of December and how you’re craving more after food, than the presents under the tree, ready to be ripped open.

 

I miss you even more when I watch clips of people coming home, after being abroad for a long time. I may also cry a little, hence I’ll click the video away and continue watching “Suits” for a while. Because this doesn’t miss me you that much. But then they’ll get married in season 28. I start to miss you when someone gets married and their family is reunited, at least for this one special occasion, knowing this will never happen to us. I miss messing around in the kitchen, when we actually had to do the washing up and I miss you attacking me in a way I could choke you to death sometimes.

 

I shouldn’t miss you here thought. I shouldn’t shed tears that often in this city of stars. In a city that never sleeps, where language, habits and everyone’s behaviour is far away from you. A place, where I shouldn’t get bored, and these overthinking thoughts shouldn’t be able to come through. But I believe that problems and thoughts will not vanish when you walk away is somehow true.

 

Truth is in fact, I miss you every day. I miss that we won’t meet up in the future. As grown-ups. Maybe with children in the backseats of our cars, crying for mummy or daddy to finally go home. It’s unfortunately certain that I’ll be on my own at our parent’s funeral. And we’ll never smoke weed together, as you wanted to. And knowing that all of this, is inevitably true makes me miss you even more and I slowly start to cry now, writing these lines, not knowing why I push myself back into a hole I once managed to crawl out of. I remember the crater in my chest. The part you teared out and could never be replaced. The wound was healing over the past two years, what has been left behind is a deep scar, that is never going to fully disappear. Now it feels like its ripped open again, and I blead. Blood, thick and red drips on the floor, covering my surroundings, my visions filthy.

 

Afterall I don’t miss this feeling of emptiness inside. I don’t miss the way I felt, after my heart broke apart. I don’t miss the tears that come and go although they make me remember you. I just miss you. Your simple appearance from time to time. A message or two, simple words, like “Hey where r u?” I even miss the rudest words, you’ve thrown at me. I miss every aspect of you being around. I miss how stoned you used to stumble into my room, late at night, when mama was asleep, but me still awake. And you grinned at me and I told you to go to bed. You nodded slowly, with this sleepy happy face and went to sleep. I miss these little moments, you know. These small and unimportant ones, that got somehow stuck in my head and are now my most precious memories.

 

Brother, I miss you from the bottom of my heart. It sounds so cheesy to say this, and you would probably hate to read it (and I bet you do), but you decided to go, so it’s me deciding what’s there to write about you.

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  • #1

    Wystan Hugh Auden (Dienstag, 06 November 2018 13:38)

    Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
    Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
    Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
    Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.

    Let aeroplanes circle moaning overhead
    Scribbling on the sky the message He Is Dead,
    Put crepe bows round the white necks of the public doves,
    Let the traffic policemen wear black cotton gloves.

    He was my North, my South, my East and West,
    My working week and my Sunday rest,
    My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;
    I thought that love would last for ever: I was wrong.

    The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
    Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
    Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
    For nothing now can ever come to any good.

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