I pretend I do not wait for you,
but longing is a patient ghost,
tracing its fingers down my spine,
weaving your name into my silence.

I carry you in the quiet hours,
where shadows stretch too long,
where my hands, so used to emptiness,
ache for something they have never held.

It is cruel, this wanting:
a hunger that does not wane,
a wound that does not scar,
a whisper that lingers even when I turn away.

And yet, I do not turn away.
I let you haunt me,
let the thought of you press against my ribs
until even my breath knows your name.

I do not chase, I do not beg,
but oh, if you knew:
if you could feel the weight of you in my bones,
the way my pulse murmurs your absence,
the way my lips shape words meant only for you.

No, I will not say it aloud.
I will not lay my longing at your feet.
But still, if you listen closely,
you will hear it:
in the hush between heartbeats,
in the spaces I have left for you.

It has only ever been you.