It’s like there’s something missing.
More than a watch you check that’s been left on the bedside table
but less than a limb.
A slight pulling down where the absence is, in the deep of my chest.
A small French bistro I didn’t know of,
I feel it.
Cold sheets as I get in late,
I feel it.
A mention of the place you were born, or a place we said we’d go, a beautiful day we never spent having fried chicken and champagne.
There are still dishes in the sink,
but there are only two.
I needed you to pick up the slack
when I was lacking
but instead I carried the weight
and it weighed me down.
And this thing that’s missing
that’s been ripped from me has left a hole but I guess it means
I’m lighter.