The light still comes in
like it always did—
slanting through the window,
cutting across the dust
that hasn't dared settle since.

The chair is exactly where you left it.
Not because we’re holding on,
but because no one
has known what to do with it.

There is a silence
that isn’t absence.
It breathes,
like something ancient and watching.
It knows your name.

Yesterday, I found your glove
tucked behind the radiator,
still curled like your hand
had just slipped out of it
to reach for something else—
maybe the sky.
Maybe the door.

I stood there
with the glove in my hand,
and suddenly
the air was too full of you
to breathe.

Grief doesn’t scream here.
It kneels.
It presses its forehead to the floor.
It listens for footsteps
that won’t come,
and still says,
"I remember."