When I say I miss you, you are missing, tu me manques. You have gone, and I miss. You see, it's not really about you. It's me. We have gone our ways and I am left behind, even if I left too. Even if I left, the space where you used to be is empty in me and I feel your absence. The absence I feel is mine, not yours who might feel mine or who might not feel and I can't feel that. I can't feel the absence you feel, your hurt, your not-feeling.
When I miss you, it's not about what you left behind, but about me, who was left behind. When I miss your jokes, I don't miss that you aren't making them (maybe you are). I miss that I can't hear them and laugh. I'm not missing you for your sake, because my missing would soothe yours, wherever you are, because my missing would be like a thread still tying us together and whenever I miss you, I would tug on it and you'd smile. No, if it's a thread, it's one looping back to me and when I miss you, I feel the tug in my heart. When I miss you, I'm not giving you anything, because you are not here to feel it. The missing is only mine.
In fact, I'm not even missing you, the person, but the space you filled in my life, in me, the us we had. I miss our conversations because I miss listening and talking to you. I don't miss the conversations you would have with other people that I never heard, your conversations in a vacuum, because the missing is never abstract. The missing thread is tied only to me. I miss your smile, I miss making you smile because it gave me joy to do that, to witness that. I miss your hurt, not because I want you to be hurting, but because I want to soothe the hurt you carried away, and now I can't. I miss what you gave me, your ear, your advice, your support, your warmth. I feel cold without you. I miss what I gave you, because of what giving gave me. I miss your flaws, but it's not really your flaws I miss, but to be so close to another person that I could see them, your trust that I would see you whole and still be there.
So really, it's not you I miss, but the thread we used to have that now loops back to me, but always tied to me. Your closeness, but not you as you were as I never saw you, not tied to anyone else. Missing is inherently selfish.
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Sometimes I wonder - if I don't miss you, beyond who you were to me - if I ever loved you, beyond who you were to me. Can you ever love the abstract of someone? Can you ever feel love without that love being about what you feel? Can you ever not-feel enough to feel a love that's not about you?
If missing is the thread that used to be love, that is love, but love separated, looped back; if love is a thread, it can only vibrate and sound if it's tight, if it's tied to something. So that's what love is. It's not about you. It's not even about me. It's about me tied to you, vibrating together, tugging the string in turns, and if it hurts, it's good hurt. I want to give you joy for my sake and I want to soothe your hurt for my sake, but if this wasn't about what I wanted and felt, I wouldn't love you at all.
And that is what missing is, too. If I miss you, it's because I feel, and I love. Tu me manques, but it's always tied back to me. If you are missing, without me to miss you, you are in a vacuum of cut strings and I am not feeling.
But when I love you, I miss you, I am always the epicentre of my own strings.