The notes desk

It's been years and I still reach for your name first.

When something good happens my hands move before my head does, and then they stop, because there's nowhere to put it now.

I'm not sad today. That's the strange part. The missing has been here so long it's load-bearing. I've built rooms out of it. I keep your side of things: small rituals, your name said like a full sentence. Someone asked about you last week. I told the true version; it came out warm.

Wherever you are: I hope it's soft there. I hope you're somebody's favorite thing. You were mine, once, out loud; that doesn't stop being true just because I can't say it to you anymore.

No ask. I just refuse to let you get smaller than you were.