I miss myself more than I’ve ever missed anyone

I took for granted the days
where every ounce of my being
belonged to me only, each detail
copyrighted as my own, cradling
each parcel of myself in cupped hands
like colored mosaic tiles
waiting to be assembled.

It was innocence, those days–
the only lover I needed
was that of my own company,
never stopping to measure approval
or ponder the permanence
of someone else’s devotion.
No, you could find me
smiling in secret, the muted
conversation between small child
and infinite universe.

And I was my own soulmate.

It was happiness, those days–
the simplicity of still being
brave enough to stand alone,
brave enough to keep some things
for myself, to not give away the answers
so easily, to hold myself back
from assembling my pieces
for undeserving eyes.

I took for granted the days
I could still set my own heart on fire,
igniting its chambers with a match
and a steady hand.

I forget now what it is like
to have one of those.
These days I cannot help
but watch both of them tremble.

Innocence, a dead language–
a forged warmth, an unfaithful love.

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