Miss

I miss little things.

Like the brown carpet of my old

Bedroom. And the pink roof of my

Two foot bookshelf. My carpet is grey now.

I miss sunshine. Or, rather, what sunshine

Used to do to me. I can’t remember, but it was nice.

Now I get burnt, and I peel.

I miss saltwater sandals. Slapping around

On the concrete like I owned the world.

I miss cereal. And my grandma’s front yard

And my own skin and my old enemies.

I miss not feeling regret. No. I do not.

I regret not ever feeling reckless. I regret

Staying in the shade. I never got burnt.

I regret never leaving the carpet.

I worry that the death of my childhood

Means the death of my happiness.

I page through the photo books now,

Grieving for that girl who lost

Her teeth a little early, shot above a little

Too soon, grew big bones faster, talked

Louder, cried harder.

I miss her. She deserved so much more

Than me.