Help, My Husband’s Been Stolen

Help, My Husband’s Been Stolen

The morning comes slow.

I wake alone.

Sunlight spills across chairs.

I remember.

His shoes by the door,

untouched, gathering dust.

I call his name.

Silence answers.

I open cupboards.

His mug waits.

Toast untouched.

I reach for him.

Sheets smooth, cold.

The hollow is there

where he should be.

The floor creaks under me.

The clock ticks.

The house sighs

without him.

I search every corner.

Every shadow.

Every room.

He is not there.

Neighbors shake their heads.

The phone rings.

No answer.

I pace,

lost in the spaces he left behind.

Streets are quiet.

Trees sway.

The wind whispers secrets

I cannot hear.

I walk outside,

hoping, listening.

Cold air touches my face.

The wind answers.

I remember his laugh.

His hands.

The way he smiled.

The sound of him breathing.

Warmth beside me.

I clutch those memories,

fragile as glass.

They cut me.

The nights stretch long,

unkind.

I lie awake,

counting minutes, heartbeats.

Each one reminding me

he is not here.

I scream inside.

I cry inside.

I do not know where he is.

Or if I ever will.

I do not know who took him,

or why the world allowed it.

I only know

the empty house.

Cold coffee.

Silent bed.

The unbearable weight

of not having him here.

I walk the rooms again.

I whisper his name.

I will not stop.

I cannot stop.

If I do,

the world might forget him.

I cannot.

I will not.

A hand on mine wakes me.

Soft, warm, familiar.

Hey sleepy, he says.

Wake up. Stop your dreaming.

It’s time for work.

I blink at light.

Sun spills across sheets.

Fingers lace with mine.

Pulling me from shadows.

Pulling me from hollow.

From quiet that almost swallowed me.

Feet touch the floor.

Coffee steams.

The ordinary morning

feels miraculous.

His voice tethers me.

His hand points me home.

I laugh quietly,

half in dreams,

half in the real.

The house breathes again,

alive with him. It was just a dream.