You’re not in danger.
You’re not hurt.
You’re just not here.

And still—
my chest folds like a paper map
creased where your name used to lie.
The silence grows teeth at night,
soft ones,
but they bite.

I know you’re somewhere safe.
Maybe smiling.
Maybe lost in a thought I’ll never hear.
And I don’t want to take that from you.
I just want you near.

When you leave,
it’s not disaster.
But the air doesn’t settle right.
I wait—
not because I’m desperate—
but because nothing fits
without your weight.

I tell myself you’ll be back,
that this is just space,
not distance.
But my hands don’t listen.
They reach anyway.
They always do.

There’s no storm.
No sirens.
Just a slow drip of maybe,
of soon.
Of hoping the next time I blink,
it’ll be you
walking back through the room.