This is not a love song
These are the things that I miss.
I miss her voice; fired up, opinionated, passionate in every way, sometimes unfair and unforgiving, quick to dismiss and scorn, judge and trample. Such a relief from my wanting-to-be-careful considerations, such freedom. In secret, I called her my little bull; I never told her that. Perhaps I thought she’d be offended.
I miss her perspective, her sense of what is funny, absurd, shocking; I was so proud to be the one to see beyond the funny girl, beyond the entertainer. I thought: no one will love you like I do. (In every story, isn’t there a character deluding herself with that belief?)
I miss her brown body, so unlike mine, yet so familiar; and I miss her appetite, for food, for movement, for life, for sex, for me. It matched and legitimised mine; it opened up floodgates in me, new possibilities, new hungers, new, shared, power.
I miss her crazy hair (she always wanted to shave it off), her soft skin, and I miss her belly.
I miss telling her off for pulling out her toenails, for always threatening to get a bald head; I miss trying to convince her that I liked her belly.
I miss pretending to tell her what to do; I miss pretending that she deserved a slap.
I miss her unrealistic expectations, which pricked the mediocre in me.
I miss her dreams of domesticity, which lured the loner in me.

These are some of the things that I miss; and if that makes me inconsistent, I don’t even care.
(On the other hand, I really don’t miss her attraction for yappy lapsang souchong dogs.)