To miss you would imply that I once had you
and we both know that was never the case

Your heart is complicated and bound by all the sins you think you've committed
against yourself, against her
And you strung me along in the hopes that I'd be able to absolve you of your transgressions
(But as long as you are hers you will never be mine)

This hurt, this ache feels dulls
nothing more than watered down heartache,
barely more than the sting of a pinch
(yet cutting me into unrecognizable pieces)

Maybe this is why this is killing me (slowly)
The ridiculousness of feeling this way for so long now
when you were such a brief part of my life

Knowing that you are close by (not missing me) is a daily torment

It is agonizing to realize all that is left behind
(from all the kisses, whispered promises, moans, smiles, and lazy weekends)
is this soreness where once dwelt the possibility of love.