there is a space in me now
that wasn’t there before.
it isn’t loud.
it doesn’t ache all the time.
it just exists,
like a chair pulled slightly away from the table
that no one has pushed back in.
when you left
you didn’t take everything.
you left the habits,
the reflex to pick up the phone and tell you things,
the instinct to save the better story for later.
my heart still works.
it still wakes me up in the morning.
it still carries me through rooms,
and conversations,
and days that look normal from the outside.
but every now and then
i feel the edge of what’s missing.
a quiet hollow
where your voice used to rest,
where your presence fit
without effort.
sometimes in the softest part of the night,
i reach toward that empty place
and understand
that loving you
reshaped me.
now i am learning
how to live
with the outline
of someone
who is no longer here.
Mar 3
Mar 3, 2026 at 6:55 AM UTC
there is a space in me now
that wasn’t there before.
it isn’t loud.
it doesn’t ache all the time.
it just exists,
like a chair pulled slightly away from the table
that no one has pushed back in.
when you left
you didn’t take everything.
you left the habits,
the reflex to pick up the phone and tell you things,
the instinct to save the better story for later.
my heart still works.
it still wakes me up in the morning.
it still carries me through rooms,
and conversations,
and days that look normal from the outside.
but every now and then
i feel the edge of what’s missing.
a quiet hollow
where your voice used to rest,
where your presence fit
without effort.
sometimes in the softest part of the night,
i reach toward that empty place
and understand
that loving you
reshaped me.
now i am learning
how to live
with the outline
of someone
who is no longer here.
