What isn't Here

I keep setting a place for you
at the edge of the table
where the wood is worn smooth
from hands that aren’t yours.

I don’t write your name.
I don’t say it.
I let the air hold it
the way a room holds heat
after the fire goes out.

There’s a cup
I don’t use.
A chair
I don’t move.
A story
I don’t finish
because the ending
is the part that’s missing.

People ask
how I’m doing
and I tell them
I’m fine
in the same way
an empty house
is fine
until someone opens a door
and hears the echo.

Some nights
I talk to the quiet
like it’s you.
It answers
the way you did—
with a pause
long enough
to mean something
and short enough
to mean nothing.

I’ve learned
that absence
is not a hollow.
It’s a shape.
A contour.
A place where something once fit
so perfectly
that the outline remains
even after the thing is gone.

I don’t chase it.
I don’t fill it.
I let it stay.

Because what’s missing
is the only part
that still feels
like you.