When I Say

When I say “I miss you,” don’t get me wrong. No, I don’t miss you.

No, what I mean is that I miss the freckle on your cheek. The one shaped like a chocolate chip, but that never tasted quite as sweet.

When I say “I miss you,” I don’t miss you. I miss your voice. I miss the way your mouth closed around syllables like every one was a tiny China doll you were afraid to shatter. The way your sentences would run together when you got excited, and the way that when you were saying something important, your words were painted on billboard signs so they were nearly impossible to miss. But I do.

When I say “I miss you,” I don’t mean I miss you. I mean that I miss your car. The little pieces of garbage and receipts and movie stubs and the random t-shirts strewn across the backseat. The pair of rollerblades in your trunk. The collection of CDs sitting your passenger side door, because I was the one allowed to pick. The miles on the highway we drove just so we could sing all the wrong words to all the right songs.

When I say “I miss you,” believe me, I do not miss you. I miss your hands. Your calloused, overworked hands. The feeling of them brushing the hair off the top of my forehead. Your hands on the small of my back as you led me to unknown places. Your hands typing out a message to me just because you knew it would make me smile. Your hands, that could take all my jigsaw pieces and put them into a puzzle worthy of being framed on a wall.

When I say “I miss you,” I mean that I miss your eyes. And no, I don’t just mean your eyes, but all the things they’ve seen. The experiences you’ve had translated into beautiful stories that take me back to your voice. Your eyes that crinkled when you laughed so hard I forgot my name. Your eyes that sparkled when the sun hit them just the right way. Your eyes that saw mine, drank one in, that spoke to me in ways your never could.

But, no. I don’t miss you. I miss the smallest part of you.

The pointless things that I’m reminded of every time I see a new freckle on my skin. The things that come to mind when a song comes on and I can almost hear your singing along. The stories I remember when I see a car that looks like yours coming down my street. The words that wash onto shore every time and ocean wave crashes into the next, and all I can think of is someone else looking into your eyes.