When people ask me what I miss about you, my answer varies:
Your hand holding mine, a softball mitt, a rough paw.
The hollow of your neck where body showers always smell better.
You running your fingers slowly through my hair. The most romantic act ever.
Your faith in me: I am a nice person, said you.
I also remember this one moment in the car, when you told me that sometimes, when we fight, you felt like hitting me. And you hated that; both the wanting and the resisting of the act. There’s nothing that could be done, you said, voice cracking, I am my father’s son.
