The Quiet Between Heartbeats

I learned grief is not a storm—

it’s the weather that stays.

A low ceiling of memory,

days smelling like yesterday,

nights stitched with what-ifs.

I wake to the weight of almosts,

names I don’t say anymore,

rooms that remember us better than I do.

Even silence has learned your voice;

it hums when the lights are off.

Love didn’t leave loudly.

It folded itself into small habits—

an empty chair,

a song I skip too fast,

the way my hands forget what to reach for.

They say time heals,

but time is a witness, not a doctor.

It watches me carry absence

like a second shadow,

faithful and exhausting.

I smile in public—

a skill I perfected for survival.

Grief prefers private places:

bathroom mirrors,

long drives,

the pause before sleep

when bravery finally clocks out.

If missing you were currency,

I’d be rich enough to disappear.

But all I own are these words,

stacked carefully so they don’t collapse.

Tonight, I will sit with the quiet again,

count heartbeats like prayers,

and pretend the ache is proof

that something beautiful once stayed.

And if sadness asks my name,

I won’t deny it.

I’ve been answering for a while now.