Missed Out

Sometimes, on my morning walk to the subway, I find myself still tasting the bad, burnt yet overly sweet coffee you used bring me every morning.  I imagine I still feel the glaze of all those cheese danishes stick to my finger nails and slide into my stomach, where it is probably still residing.  On my happiest mornings, when the sun touches my cheeks and I finally feel at home, I miss the feel of your white comforter on my bare skin and the way the sun came through cracks in the blinds and the way I shielded my eyes with the curve of your arm.  I miss being naïve enough to think that the simple things are the easiest to hang on to.  I miss being young enough not to fear the delicate simplicity of waking up beside someone and not rushing out door.