I miss your stories. Speaking of ways in which you proved your worth to men of nobility; Joys found in free treats; Bursting hearts over wrinkles; Through your own wit and charm, all that which you've accomplished. 

I miss your mannerisms. I miss the way your eyes would fall far when something [shouldn't have] hurt you. I miss mornings. I miss biking through city streets, feeling your presence somewhere in the shadow of the same mountain.

But 

I don't want to miss feeling inadequate, falling short of your dreams of me. 

I don't want to miss disappointing you, having not kept up 

With where you'd have me be.

Today I subscribe to my own dreams of silly old me.

And hope that an old he only sees what's beyond my fancy dresses,

Knowing that I'm perfect in my becoming something other

Than any other's dream.