The house still stands,
nothing moved.
Couch, table, bed -
all where they've always been.
But there is a space in every room now,
dhaped exactly like you.
Not loud, not obvious,
just⦠missing.
The floor doesn't creeks the same,
without your paws crossing it.
Mornings don't start -
they just happen.
I still reach down sometimes,
without thinking,
Hand searching for a head,
that isn't there to lean into my palm.
It's strange what greif chooses to keep:
the sound of your nails on the floor,
the weight of you against my leg,
the way you sighed,
like the world was finally okay,
us bound by the same perimeter of light.
You did not know about the bad days,
or the storms inside my head.
You just stayed,
as if it was your only task,
like loving me,
was the most natural thing in the world.
Now the silence haunts me,
not sharp -
just heavy.
Like the air before rain that never falls.
People say time helps,
that time heals all.
But time is the thing,
that took you further away.
I am not who I was
when you were here.
I laugh, I work, I go on -
but there is a softer place in me now.
A wound that does not heal,
a bruise that does not fade,
a door that can never fully close.
Because somewhere in this house,
in the quiet between heartbeats,
I am still listening,
for you.
But now the rooms echo differently,
like the walls learned your name.
And I listen for the sounds,
that will never come again.
You loved every version of me,
the happy one, the tired one,
the one no one ever sees,
this is the pain I feel the most.
You did not care if I succeeded,
or if I failed.
If I mattered to anyone else.
Because to you,
I was already enough.
I am left with this constant ache -
sharp and loud,
woven into everything,
like a thread pulled loose,
from the fabric of my life,
that I cannot restitch.
I am not who I was
when you were here.
Part of me left with you,
not knowing,
it would never find its way back.
