What hurts

The night is where people like us belong.

The night will always call our names.
Not many will understand this;
many will think we are crazy.
We used to stay up late for no reason and we were up till the sun would wake; this I remember.
There were times when we were apart, but I knew you were up, perhaps, even doing the same thing I was doing.
I can still remember those late nights. The times we would lay in bed and count the ridges on my ceiling. They were like a small mountains mounted above outer heads. Those late nights were really something, this I tell you. I miss them and now they flash through my memory like fireworks blooming in the middle of the sky and it hurts.
It always hurts.
The slow sting of watching you come and go, those moments probably hurt the most — like spending a few hours with you was never enough. We always wanted more and even if we had more, it still, was never enough.
And it will never be.
And I cannot make sense of this crave.
This urgent want,
this heavy little felling of missing you.
I miss you.
I feel like the night still belongs to us;
and it calls my name.
It keeps haunting me.
It gets under my skin, breaking the atoms of what once was,
and what will never be.
I still remember you.
You are in my head when no one else is around.
You are the ticking of a clock: the seconds remind me of you.
The night is where people like us belong,
and still, we could both see where we should be.
I miss you and sometimes, I wonder if you miss me.
And that is the only thing
I really want to know.
If I am in your Ming in the middle of the night, where it is , where I belong.
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