I still hope, despite myself, despite everything, that you would miss me. That you would miss me in the vague way that one would occasionally wish for it to rain so that it matches one's mood. Or for the Sun to suddenly say hello on an overcast day. That you would think of me like a sudden burst of wild flowers by the roadside. Or the sweet singing of a bird briefly perching near you. Or just the common blue sky of a mild-weathered day.
That memories of my words would fondly slip into your reveries. You don't even have to tell me that you miss me, as long as occasionally you spare a thought for me. That I am acknowledged as a distant, dear friend of yours. Like a faded photograph in an album you would sometimes leaf through.
As for me? I will miss you like the moon, throughout the night when you won't see me, throughout the day when you can't see me. Despite myself, despite everything.