It’s wild how something so simple
used to mean so much.

We’d cook together, remember?
Messy countertops, loud music,
Me tasting things before they were done,
You pretending to be annoyed
but loving every second of it.

Now I stand in that same kitchen
and it’s too quiet.
The pan still sizzles,
the water still boils,
but it’s like the soul left with you.

I used to love this.
Now I can count on one hand
how many times I’ve cooked this month.
And it ain’t because I’m too busy.
It’s because every time I pick up a knife
or reach for a spice
I feel you next to me,
and I’m not ready for that kind of ghost.

I don’t know if you think of me.
If you miss those nights,
if you ever wonder
how empty this place feels now.
But ****…
I miss the good,
I miss the bad,
I miss the everything.

One day I’ll cook again.
Not for a memory.
Not for a ghost.
But for me.

I’m just not there yet.