What We Miss Most

it is sunny outside but there are still thunderclaps
inside my eyelids from all of your outbursts
I am coming to terms with the fact
that I was afraid of you

and the questions now remain:
do I forgive you?
and are you sorry?
or are you satisfied?

you are sticking to me like grass burrs
latching onto my sleeves and pricking my fingers
when I ask you to leave

and yet, you somehow still slip through me like beaded water
nothing about you lingers the way it used to.
the ways you hurt me slide through my hands
and I cannot keep them there long enough
to remember why I am angry

it took so many months to uncover the ants
in our sheets, and I have grasped
at fleeting straws all this time

so some nights, I only want to hate
the dirt off your back with my tongue
some nights, I want to find what I missed
in your mouth. some nights it is all I can do
to stay a room away from your bed

until the thunder rolls in
and I remember

so I sit across couches from you
and your guitar, and it hurts most when
you play music, or when you dance.
I used to be your reason for both.

and I became the villian
the moment I said goodbye first
because your bruised hopes let you forget
the shredded heart between my ribs

and so the questions remain:
do I forgive you?
and are you sorry?
or are you satisfied?

it is difficult to say.
but I have a hunch that you
only miss the way your thumb felt
with me underneath it