The way my face softens when he shows up.
The lightness in my voice when he speaks to me.
He thinks that is the whole story.
He doesn’t see the preparation before that
how an ordinary day bends itself around the hope of him,
how time stretches thin, waiting for one 'yes',
one phone call, one accidental touch.
He knows I miss him.
But he doesn’t know how absence rearranges a space.
How a day feels emptier than it should.
How silence grows heavy, almost physical,
pressing against my ribs when he isn’t there to break it.
He knows I care.
He hears it in my words, maybe even believes it.
I tell him everyday as my closing spiel.
But he doesn’t see the rituals
the way I include him in my prayers,
the way I ask for his happiness
even when that joy might unfold without me standing beside him.
He thinks he understands my heart
He hears it in my words, maybe even believes it.
I tell him everyday as my closing spiel.
But he doesn’t see the rituals
the way I include him in my prayers,
the way I ask for his happiness
even when that joy might unfold without me standing beside him.
He thinks he understands my heart
because I have shown him its outline.
What he doesn’t know is that every plan I draft for the future,
every soft dream I dare to construct now,
has his shadow moving through it.
He knows the surface of my love.
He has never seen how deep it goes.
Some feelings are louder in silence,
and mine screams only for him.
He has never seen how deep it goes.
Some feelings are louder in silence,
and mine screams only for him.
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