It has been four days since we last spoke
and my body still hasn’t caught up
to the silence.

My stomach knots itself
like it’s trying to hold onto something
that is already gone.

I keep checking for you
in small, embarrassing ways—
a glance at my phone,
a pause in the middle of nothing,
as if your name might appear
just to prove
I didn’t imagine it.

Because something happened.
I know it did.

You don’t touch someone
like that—
don’t speak to them
like they matter—
don’t stay all day
and disappear like it was nothing.

And yet—
here we are.

You,
somewhere else entirely.

Me,
still feeling you
in places I wish would forget.

It’s not even you I miss most.
It’s the shift.

The way everything lit up for a moment—
my body soft,
my guard down,
my thoughts quieter than they’ve been in years—

and then
the drop.

The quiet after
feels louder than anything you said.

I keep telling myself
this is ridiculous.
That four days is nothing.
That you owe me nothing.
That I should be able
to carry this better.

But my body doesn’t understand logic.

It only understands
that something opened
and wasn’t closed properly.

So it waits.

In my chest.
In my stomach.
In the space behind my ribs
where your absence now lives
like a question
no one answers.

I don’t know what hurts more—
that you’re gone,
or that you might come back
just enough
to start this all over again.

Because I know myself.

I know I would soften.
I know I would open.
I know I would forget
how this feels right now.

And maybe that’s the real ache—
not losing you,
but knowing
how easily
I could lose myself.

JMS