It is The Missings.
My father liked to tell me this was because
he only saw us every second weekend.
My brother liked to tell me I was
Pathetic. Until every second weekend became
every second Christmas and he cried.
The Missings have been my silent goodbye
My stolen glances
until now, reciprocated.
Chest is locked up. I’m feverish.
I swallow the vomit to hide
feeling too much for someone. You should be ashamed.
And that’s The Missings.
Family don’t understand.
Friends let it go.
Lovers think it is endearing.
Panic doesn’t give a shit.
And there are no second chances.