The house doesn’t know you’re gone.
It still expects your footsteps.
The kettle still clicks on
at the hour you would have reached for it.
I open the windows the way you like—
wide, even when it’s cold—
as if the wind might carry something familiar.
As if I’m not the only one
waiting.
I do ordinary things,
but they feel unfinished.
A meal with no one to pass the salt to.
A joke with no echo.
A laugh that folds in on itself.
It’s not loneliness exactly.
More like the room is slightly tilted.
Like everything here remembers
your gravity.
You’re not far.
You’re just not here.
But the absence moves like water—
quiet, everywhere,
touching everything.
I keep imagining the moment you return.
Your bag at the door.
Your voice filling the space
as if it never left.
And I’ll say,
“I missed you,”
but what I’ll mean is:
“Everything did.”
