When I miss you, I put on that deep pink lipstick you said you liked.

I paint my face to hide the redness in my eyes from crying for what seemed like endless hours.

I slip on a deep cut shirt that’s too tight and some ripped up jeans because you said you didn’t like me dressing that way.

When I miss you, I text my friends.

We go out – and drink too much.

When I miss you, I take an extra shot of something strong. And another. And another.

When I miss you, I look for comfort in other boys. Boys who don’t know me. Boys who can’t even remember my name later on in the night.

His hands latch onto my waist and pulls me in close.

I kiss his lips and they smell of cheap beer.

He doesn’t kiss me like you did.

When I miss you, I let these boys take me home with them.

But it isn’t the same.

Everything surrounding me is too unfamiliar. The sounds. The feelings. The smells. Especially the boy sleeping next to me.

When I miss you, I text you. I look at old photos I know I should have deleted, and slip into remorse of nostalgia.

One day, I will no longer miss you.

I wish that day would come.