Missing you is allowed.
I’ve checked.
It doesn’t come with a summons
or a return label.
Some feelings are just visitors—
they pass through,
comment on the weather,
Then leave without unpacking.
Yes, I miss you sometimes.
That does not mean I am dialing anything,
typing anything,
or reopening a door that has already been learned
How to close itself.
The past has been archived.
Labeled.
Filed under What Was—
not To Be Revisited.
What we had grew where it could,
in that soil,
in that season,
with the tools we had then.
But let’s be clear:
Old crops do not grow in new ground.
I am standing in fresh grass now—
the kind that hasn’t been trampled by memory,
the type that doesn’t know your name
and doesn’t need to.
This season smells different.
It asks better questions.
It doesn’t romanticize droughts
or call survival a love language.
Missing you is human.
Reentering the past would be a hobby
I’ve officially retired from.
I don’t confuse nostalgia with invitation.
I don’t mistake tenderness for access.
And I certainly don’t text people
because my heart had a quiet moment.
There is clarity here.
There is humor in restraint.
There is confidence in knowing
that something can be complete
without being continued.
So yes—
I miss you sometimes.
And no—
That changes absolutely nothing.
The past is done.
The present is growing.
And this season?
This season is not accepting seeds
from old fields—
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