Unraveled

Your silence sits beside me

like a coat someone forgot on a chair

heavy, warm with old memories,

still shaped like the person

who once slipped their arms into it.

I keep looking at it,

as if the fabric might breathe again,

as if the seams might sigh your name.

It’s the smallest things

that pull the threads loose:

the cup you left on the table,

a half-moon stain on the wood

that I never wipe away,

your toothbrush still standing

like a soldier with no command,

your playlist auto playing

even when I choose silence.

The ghosts of your routines

walk through the house

with familiar footsteps—

not loud, not sharp,

just soft enough to haunt,

soft enough to undo me.

And I hate how easily

the world goes on spinning

while I keep circling

the same missing piece

tracing the outline

of something that’s no longer here

but somehow still everywhere.

I could box up the reminders,

close the drawers,

take back the space

but every time I try,

my hands stop,

as if they still remember

how to hold you.