The Absense You Created

At first, gently—
in the quiet places,
in the steam of your morning coffee,
in the seconds before sleep
when the world goes still enough
for me to slip back in.

I hope you miss me there.
Not enough to break you—
just enough
to notice the absence
you created.

Because I can’t get rid of you.

You sit under my ribs,
heavy, unmoving—
like something that doesn’t belong
but refuses to leave.

And I have tried
to forget you
without destroying myself.

You said you didn’t love me.
Not really.
Not in the way that stays.

Just in the way
that takes.

So maybe, at first,
it’s just a thought—
a flicker of me
you can brush off.

But it won’t stay that small.

It will grow.

Quietly.
Patiently.

Until one day
it settles into you—
not like a storm,
but like erosion—

slow, constant,
undoing everything
you were so sure of.

And that’s when you’ll reach for me.

When the weight of it
finally has a name.

When you realize
what you lost
was not temporary,
was not replaceable,
was not mine alone to carry.

And I won’t be there.

Not waiting.
Not hurting.
Not yours.

Just gone—

in the way
you always thought
I would be.

JMS