I don’t miss you when I’m reading Michael Chabon stories outloud to my friends.

I don’t miss you when I’m eating a steak I grilled for myself.
I don’t miss you when I talk to my family and they ask about you.
I don’t miss you when I walk across campus.
I don’t miss you when I drink at night.

I do miss you, however, when I sleep at night, when I drive out to Heber, when I eat Arby’s, when I listen to Andrew Bird, and when I think of Thanksgiving.

These things don’t matter though. All of it is an illusion.