I miss the grocery aisle where you argued passionately about which tomatoes to buy.

I miss you; even the ordinary fact of you is tender today.

Valentine's has me missing your text at 3 a.m., short and half-joking.

I miss your backpack with the sticker of that band we barely know.

I miss you and the terrible coffee you make that you swear is ‘fine’.

I miss you; it's a simple sentence and it's true today.

I miss you in the quiet between songs on the radio.

I miss the small victory dance you do when your plant doesn't die.

I miss the half-written grocery list you tucked into your pocket and forgot.

I miss the way your keys jingle when you get home late.

I miss you; I'm not pretending to be brave about it.

On this day I miss you standing in the kitchen trying to flip pancakes.

I miss the playlist you made that got stuck on one song all week.

I'm missing you right now; it feels thick and obvious.

I miss watching you read and frown at the margins of your notebook.

I miss you enough to admit I checked your messages without asking.

I miss the crumb of toast you left on the counter and didn't notice.

Valentine's has me missing the small ridiculous things — your pen that always leaks.

I miss your voice saying my name wrong in that soft, teasing way.

Today makes me miss you more than the slow afternoons do.

I miss the smell of your shampoo on my pillow from yesterday.

I miss sitting with you in the laundromat while our socks tumbled.

I miss the button on your coat I sewed back on last week.

I miss you — even the way you sigh when the bus jolts.

I miss your chipped mug from that tiny stall we found together this morning.

I miss the receipt you keep from the movie we fell asleep in halfway through.

I miss you sitting on the floor tying your shoes and humming under your breath.

I miss the dent your head leaves on the pillow when you nap on your side.

I miss the way you fold your jacket over the back of a chair and forget it there.

I miss you more than I expected to miss a person on a day like this.

I miss the smudge of flour on your cheek from when you tried that recipe.

I miss you sitting across from me, biting the end of your pen while you think.

Valentine's makes me miss you and the mug you always chose with the faded rim.

I miss how you fold receipts into tiny squares and keep them in your wallet.

I miss your scarf tossed over the chair like you were coming back in a minute.

I miss you when I pass the bench we sat on the first time it rained.

I miss your phone case cracked down the corner and the sticker you put on it.

On this Valentine's, I'm thinking of your laugh at 2 a.m. and missing it.

I was glad you asked me to stay a bit longer tonight.

Seeing your messy notes made me feel included in your day.