Why do I feel your absence this much—

why does the air thin when you’re not here?

It hurts. Too much.

Some nights I toss in tangled sheets,

longing just to hear your voice,

to ask the questions that won’t let me sleep:

What happened?

Where did we go wrong?

Why do I feel like this—so hurt, so restless?

Do you feel it too?

I want you to, but I don’t.

I don’t want you drowning

in the same dark water,

not when you have storms of your own.

We were perfect together.

Or so I thought.

You saw me—really saw me—

and I saw you.

I wanted you happy, whole.

Maybe I didn’t show it enough.

You didn’t have to hurt me the way you did.

We could have ended this gently,

but you thought I was running away.

I wanted peace.

You wanted clarity before peace.

I guess I didn’t understand you enough.

I wish I had—

then I wouldn’t be here now,

aching for your presence,

missing what we were.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​