#missing your voice

when nothing asks for my attention

and everything reminds me of her.

Her name lingers in my chest,

unspoken but heavy,

like a song I never finished.

Some nights I swear she’s almost here,

in the space beside me,

in the breath before sleep,

in the hope I pretend not to have.

I carry her absence gently,

because missing her

is the last way

or just the quiet I left behind,

the way a room cools after a candle’s gone,

still warm, but no longer alive?

Do you care for me,

or for the habit of my name,

resting on your tongue,

familiar as a song you don’t listen to anymore?

I wonder if absence ever startles you,

if my silence knocks at odd hours,

or if you’ve learned to live,

without checking the door.

I miss you in verbs,

in things unfinished,

in questions that ache,

because they never learned how to end.

But tell me,

when you think of me,

is it a wound,

Morning light on the wall,

The way coffee forgives me,

Songs that know my childhood,

better than I do.

I’d list faces next,

the ones that feel like home,

even when we don’t speak,

Laughter that arrives unannounced,

Hands that stayed.

Then places,

A street I never learned the name of,

but still miss,

Rooms that remember me,

more kindly than I remember myself.

I’d keep going,

Books with cracked spines,

Silence that doesn’t ask questions,

The exact moment before rain.

The list would grow long,

curling at the edges,

crowded with love I didn’t realize,

I was carrying so carefully.

And only at the end,

after the ink thinned,

after my wrist ached,

would I pause, surprised,

by the empty space left.

As if I had forgotten,

I was allowed to be included,

As if loving the world,

were easier than circling my own name,

and admitting,

​So, I don't know how to say this in a way that doesn't sound like I'm obsessed but, I keep missing you. I'm not really the type to get attached to people so easily and it's weird to say it out loud but I think at some point I just got used to the sound of your voice. Mornings when I woke up tangled up in your arms just became routine the same way you making my tea in the morning did. The idea of coming to you when I wasn't feeling my best and having you hug me and tickle me and fill my ears with goofy comments that you know were guaranteed to make me laugh; that's become a memory now.

I wake up everyday now surprised as to why I'm wrapped up in blankets instead of you. My tea is always cold in the morning now. On days when I'm down I'm forced to turn on the TV and fake my laughter in order to fill the silence.