Longing

I set a place for you -

just one.

No knife,

only the spoon.

Candles flicker in rooms

where your voice never took root.

My fingertips trace the ghost

of a hand I've never held.

They twitch in sleep -

presence never materialized,

just shimmered at the threshold,

a promise wrapped in fog,

a door knob unturned.

You spoke in ellipses -

tender,

incomplete.

Your affection always an echo,

as if someone else were whispering

the words for you.

I still hum your name

into my pillow.

I still dream your mouth

closer than your heart

ever dared to be.

And in the morning,

I wipe the rim of your cup

though you never drank from it -

as if polishing absence

makes it less cruel.

The candlelight's gone cold,

and I'm learning to eat

alone.