If smoke were solid

You moved on a Sunday. The last time I saw you — a Sunday. I hate them now, because of you. God, I’m sorry. This day of rest has forsaken me.

The other night, I stared at my reflection on the lake's surface. Contemplation is clearer out in the elements. It made me think of fishermen. Ask one about the catch that got away, and he’ll smile. His posture straightens, his eyes brighten, his voice rises like a tide. He wears his loss like a badge of pride. There’s a sense of wonder in his lament— but no mourning.

It’s different with you. My grief is inseparable from you. I mourn you every day. I mourn a relationship we never had. My morning ritual has become a mourning ritual. My life is photo frames turned face-down. Rooms with drawn curtains. Crows perched on gravestones. The color black—everywhere.

It’s the worst in the morning — before the noise, before life limply offers its weak distractions. In the silence, and in a bed too big for just me, I feel your absence. It’s cold like clouds — light in appearance, but impossibly heavy.

I never got to wake up beside you. But in my mind, I’ve done it a thousand times. On linen sheets, I trace the outline of your ghost. I think I’ve nailed your dimensions. My hands linger a moment too long where I think yours would be. I picture you there, curled beneath the blankets, the fan spinning your hair into a gentle chaos. I kiss the pillow like it is your forehead. You’re safe, serene, and most importantly — with me.

I live in my head now, not the present. Time is an illusion as a daydreamer. “Now” doesn’t exist — because in it, we don’t.

I reach for my phone, and the realization hits: the good morning texts went with you. It’s bitter — like black coffee. I dim the screen. It takes me a while to accept reality. I sober up the way rocks erode, the way people learn languages — slowly, over time.

I reflect on the time I had you. You were halfway present — half here, half gone, one hand in mine, the other clutching your suitcase like a golden ticket.

Sometimes, I made you forget your plans. But I could never get your feet to sink into this place. Not that I blame you — but I was close.

You hated it here. Out loud, at least. What was inside, well, you'd never share that with me. You mistake your silence for safety, but it is your downfall.

Every morning, you woke one step closer to leaving. And every night, I kissed someone who had already said goodbye in secret.

I listened when you talked about leaving, even when it felt like I was being slowly erased. Your eyes lit up with purpose. Against every fiber of my being, I knew I couldn’t stop you.

You said you needed space to breathe —

taller trees,

more hills,

fewer ghosts.

I didn’t ask whose. I didn't want to know.

I didn’t realize how much I’d outgrown this place until I lost you. (You lost me too.) In fact, you changed the way I see everything. You were right, it isn’t beautiful like people say.

I think you’re a genius. You pick up on things that everyone else overlooks. Souls don’t grow here. They rot — quietly, under the sun. You left for a place where people sell theirs. I don’t know which is worse, but I’d sell mine to go back to you. I have specific dates in mind. Autumn was ours. It would be nice to share every season.

I hate knowing that life really does go on, even when it doesn't feel like it. The years have blurred your features, but not the feeling. I remember your warmth. Like laundry pulled fresh from the dryer. Like hearing "I miss you too." Like those long hugs where neither of us let go first, where silence said more than words ever could. The way your hand held mine —tightly, securely— like you were staying for good, like letting go might break us both.

And it did. At least, it broke me. On the outside, it appears I have it all together. On the inside, I’ve shattered into countless infinitesimal pieces. My knees have scars you've never seen from crawling through the wreckage. My heart has become a mosaic of unknown fragments, glued together by some nameless force, a puzzle with the corners missing. It might not be pretty, but it has character.

It's a miracle that I don't drink, that no bartender in town knows my name, that I never tell anyone to pour me the usual.

I've learned to sit with pain. You exist there, swinging in a hammock. I don't run from it. I have resolve like no one else you’ll ever meet. I water my seeds of sorrow. One day, flowers will grow in the darkness, and I’ll hand them to you in a ceramic vase—crafted from my missing pieces—shards of who I was, and they won’t be origami roses, like the ones I learned to fold in five minutes. Do you remember that? I hope you dwell on that small gesture forever.

I know there's a part of you that reciprocates in quiet, but your indifference blares through a loudspeaker. In your world, the sun revolves around the earth. We could tend a garden, and you'd seal it in a snowglobe, a place to look at but not to live in. But I know how you are, so I'd plant pine trees and tell you they were sunflowers. I'd tell you I'm out catching butterflies and return with bluebirds. I'd find a way to grow pomegranates in the cold. I'd do rain dances in winter and I'd write Santa a list in July.

You've stayed in me, like children forced indoors by a thunderstorm, their wide eyes peering out windows, in search of the sun. I hope the memory of me yields dividends for you, as yours does for me. I hope you revisit them often—like opening the fridge when you’re not quite hungry yet.

I never mentioned it before, but I met a minister once—at my friend’s wedding. He was awkwardly tall, pale as moonlight—like his relationship with Jesus kept him indoors. The bride was distraught that her late father couldn’t be there—couldn’t walk her down the aisle. The minister said something I’ll never forget: "People don’t have to be physically present to be with us. They can live in love." And I thought of you. My dearest, you live in love. In the songs that play in my car when I'm all alone. In the scent of rain hitting concrete. You made me fall in love with grey skies because even the bluest ones couldn’t compete with your eyes.

You exist in envy when I stare at other couples holding hands —they found a way to get it right. You linger in the roads I'll never turn down again. You haunt the hallways of the house we should have made a home. You’re there in the secret chambers of my heart that can only be discovered after someone leaves. You're in the space I'll never fill, because it isn't meant to be filled. It's meant to be remembered. You're stitched into me. Not like a wound, more like a thread holding me together, keeping everything in place. I'm afraid to tug too hard at your memory in case the whole thing unravels. Above all, you live in hope—in the chance that someday we’ll find our way back.