She’ll miss me in the morning light,
When silence stirs the sheets we shared.
The sun will rise, but not quite right—
Its warmth will land where I once cared.
Her hand may reach, half out of sleep,
For something lost too far, too deep.
She’ll miss the way I said her name,
Like it was precious, soft, and rare.
The way I touched her, not for flame,
But just to know that she was there.
She’ll wear her robe, walk through the hall,
And feel the hush behind it all.
The garden paths will whisper still
Of laughter echoing through leaves.
She’ll see me in the daffodils,
In petals caught on autumn’s breeze.
And though she’ll try to smile, to cope—
She’ll find me tangled in her hope.
She’ll miss me when the kettle sings,
When shadows stretch across the day.
In all the small and tender things
That once made time just slip away.
My voice, my scent, my quiet stare—
All ghosts that linger in the air.
She’ll miss me most when night is near,
When stars arrive, and sleep won’t come.
She'll turn and wish that I were here,
That love like ours was never done.
She’ll ache, not loud—but like a song
That plays when all the lights are gone.
Yes, she’ll miss me—slow and true,
In ways she never thought she would.
For when you love the way we did,
The leaving’s never understood.
And though her world will still move on,
It won’t feel right with me gone.
©gj30
G