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When I say I love you, what exactly do I love?

When I feel I miss you, what do I miss?

Some sentiments can easily be defined by way of how much, how often, or how long. Others, however, can’t even begin to be described or classified on a scale – they simply fall right off it into a vast hole of crossed wires.

Searching our minds for that one reason, cooped up in the dark with damp eyes and a dry mouth, nonetheless with a buzzing mind. Then you stop and realise, after all that pointless thinking and turning the same thoughts over in your head time and again, it really wouldn’t matter which part you choose to love or miss or hate – because it would end up being a part of the whole, part of the bigger picture.

As much as we should be able to accept this, it scarcely stops us from longing after that one flaw we came to find so endearing, or that one perfection we grew to hate.

Then again, there comes some kind of point wherein we have that epiphany, even if it’s just for a brief moment of pressing time – it snaps us out of concentration and bats our thoughts back into place, leaving that mark of regret we soon realise is nothing other than naïvety.

Of course, knowing better than common sense, we seem to think we can cheat it. So we choose once again to miss them, love them, hate them, without actually knowing what it is we’re filling our already teeming minds with. Still, it ends up comforting us in a peculiarly satisfying way.

I do want to miss you, but there is so much of you I wouldn’t know where to start, nor would I where to stop.