To be alive is to be constantly missing someone or something.
At first, in youth, you miss little things, tangible things, physical things. Then you grow and you miss home. With time and experience, you start missing people– people who’ve died, the ones that left too soon.
You become in a constant state of missing.
You miss moments you’ll never have and moments you’ll never have again.
You miss hearing them say your name, and the distinct way they said it.
You miss their touch, their smile, their love and their presence.
You miss their comfort and their energy.
You miss it all. You miss them.
You’re constantly in a state of missing— people, experiences, feelings, love.
A state of constant missing. A state of grief and love boldly together, intertwined so tightly they cannot be separated.
A constant state of missing, both someone and something. Which is really just missing the person and all that they were and are and can never be again– a search for someone you cannot find here anymore and a longing for a piece of both you and your story that cannot return.
Living and missing, always.
I never realized how life is a tangled web of love and loss, hope and sorrow, beauty and dread.
I never realized how living is really a constant state of missing.
Missing pieces of you.
Missing those you lost.
Missing, forever.
