X: Selective "missings"

My X. I miss her. I miss the smell of her hair, sweet like peaches. I miss her words – soft metaphors of autumn; of dancing in the sun; of exploring the contours of my lips like a continent. I miss my hand on her thigh, her hand on my arm, my hand on her waist, her hand on my abdomen, my hand in the nape of her neck, her hand in my hair, our lips. I miss her early morning visits when I’m still in my pajamas, my hair a mess. I miss our quick half-hour lunches. I miss her singing behind me in church. I miss our late night chats about possible futures. I miss what could have been. I’m missing only the good stuff.