What do you call this feeling?

What Do You Call This Feeling?

Miss, miss, miss… what is this ache?
Why won’t it leave, this shadow, this stake?
Why won’t you give me reasons to forget?
A heart that aches is a wound unmet.

Miss, miss, miss… I press these keys,
Trying to write what the heart can’t ease.
The end, they say, should bring relief,
But mine clings tight to the weight of grief.

I remember, Miss, when you showed me the sky,
I thought it’d be weather, not your world to spy.
You sent me the earth, the air, the scene,
I misunderstood, but your meaning was clean.

Miss, miss, miss… I asked for a photo still,
But you heard my words against my will.
I wanted forever; you thought I meant fleeting,
Your silence grew loud, our words retreating.

You spoke in murmurs, Miss, half a thought,
“Hmm, haan, yeah,” but the feeling was caught.
You were fragile, I see it now,
Yet I never learned the why or how.

Miss, miss, miss… you loved to surprise,
That jump-scare pride gleamed in your eyes.
Spring is near, but the season’s wrong,
The air feels empty where you belong.

Hopeless, they call me, Miss, and I sigh,
I play your songs and wonder why.
The leads you loved, who never stayed,
Were they just like you, afraid?

Miss, miss, miss… I write to forget,
But these words only anchor my regret.
“Crazy,” you’d tease, “stupid,” you’d grin,
And I hear it now, deep within.

I try to recall, Miss, your favorite things,
Your flowing words, the joy they’d bring.
But silence won, and so it stayed—
Did you leave, or were you afraid?

Miss, miss, miss… how heavy was your bag?
Did the weight of the world make you drag?
I wanted to share it, ease your pain,
But maybe I failed to reach the vein.

When our bond was breaking, Miss, did you try?
Or did fear convince you to say goodbye?
You claimed you knew what you were doing,
But I saw the storm inside you brewing.

Miss, miss, miss… your books still speak?
Do they tell you truths you’re too scared to seek?
Did you curse your life, just for a while,
Or fight to prove you could reconcile?

Was it age, Miss, or restless pride,
That kept your feelings locked inside?
A fragile heart in bottled pain,
That called it peace, but felt the strain.

Miss, miss, miss… what’s the line to tread,
Between self-respect and words unsaid?
If choices were easy, clear to see,
Why does this feeling still linger in me?

I never learned, Miss, to sever a soul,
Yet here you are, out of my control.
I can’t say “goodbye,” not even “sayonara”—
So I whisper instead, a quiet voilà.

Miss, miss, miss… what is this feeling?
A hollow ache, a wound still healing.
Is this the cost of love mislaid,
A ghost of you, that will never fade?