How can you miss what you never had?

That's the feeling, the sense of missing something always out of reach, like an unseen colour, a stranger strangely familiar story land, the description of a taste, a future memory.
Hume might say the force of impression may fade, pressing reality into imagination, or if traffic runs both ways, here on that border is the desire for what was never known.
Or maybe it's like understanding only what a triangle is, and when a square is encountered at first it is only a "not triangle" and maybe the possibilities of more "not triangles" are imagined. Maybe that's the unknown colour, somewhere in the anti-spectrum there is another inconceivable but possible colour. And in moments of grace, no triangle, no not triangle, no thing. Yes.
Instead, I remember riding riding riding him, hand in sweat on his skin the joy between eyes and sighs. Yes.
And attempting to extrapolate joy out of bed and into the grind and sweat of everyday toil, those moments between eyes, fighting and fucking up into something new. The possibility of not triangle, but not knowing what the fuck the shape of things is. Everything gone Claire shaped.
Or maybe it's a trick of imagination and not memory, the delicious part; that sense of expanding joy, a seed spiralling shoots out enlivening all hours, destroying barriers and ruining limits, running roughshod over neat borders with its own quiet precision and intelligence. And love.
Love to love soaking through with all the everything and more.