I find you
in the empty side of the bed,
where your warmth once lingered
long after the mornings faded.
You’re in the songs
that shuffle too perfectly,
whispering our yesterdays
through static and melody.
In chipped mugs,
in street names,
in the scent of rain on pavement—
you linger,
a shadow stitched into
my every ordinary thing.
I sweep, I sort, I breathe—
and still,
I gather pieces of us
like glass I can’t throw away.
Too beautiful,
too broken,
too much a part of me.
May 15, 2025
May 15, 2025 at 6:40 PM UTC
I find you
in the empty side of the bed,
where your warmth once lingered
long after the mornings faded.
You’re in the songs
that shuffle too perfectly,
whispering our yesterdays
through static and melody.
In chipped mugs,
in street names,
in the scent of rain on pavement—
you linger,
a shadow stitched into
my every ordinary thing.
I sweep, I sort, I breathe—
and still,
I gather pieces of us
like glass I can’t throw away.
Too beautiful,
too broken,
too much a part of me.
Sometimes, love lingers in the little things—quiet, unexpected, and stubbornly present. This poem was born from those moments where the past brushes up against the present, not to haunt, but to remind us that healing doesn’t mean forgetting. It means learning how to carry the pieces with grace.
