The kind of missing that lives in me
isn't quiet.
It doesn't wait politely in the corners of my chest.
It arrives like a blade
finding the same wound
over and over,
as if my heart has forgotten
how to stop bleeding around your name.
People say missing someone fades,
that time softens every edge.
But time has only taught my grief
where to hide
until something small—
a song,
a scent,
the shape of a stranger's shoulders—
gives it permission
to drive itself through me again.
The cruelest part is this:
You're not mine.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
So my love has nowhere to go.
It circles inside me,
colliding with my ribs
like a bird that keeps mistaking
my heart for an open sky.
I miss conversations
we haven't had.
I miss holding a hand
I'm not allowed to reach for.
I miss a future
that still exists only
in the fragile place
between hope and heartbreak.
Every night I bargain
with memories that cannot answer.
Every morning I wake
to the unbearable fact
that wanting someone
doesn't bring them closer.
If love could build bridges,
I'd already be standing beside you.
Instead,
I'm stranded on the opposite shore,
watching the tide carry pieces of me away,
wondering if you can feel
the same ocean pulling at you.
They call it missing someone.
But that word is too small.
Missing sounds like absence.
This is an ache
that has learned my heartbeat,
a quiet violence
that lives beneath every breath,
a wound that keeps whispering,
"Come back..."
even when the room is empty,even when the silence
is the only thing
holding me.