I don’t miss them.  
I miss the shape I became  
when they looked at me  
like I mattered.

I miss who I could almost be—  
before the weight of leaving  
taught my reflection to flinch.

Now,  
I carry echoes that don’t belong to me.  
Laughter I didn’t laugh.  
Affection that calcified  
somewhere between memory and myth.

I keep their names  
in the soft part of my mouth—  
not to speak,  
just to feel  
the wound hum back.

Loss isn’t always absence.  
Sometimes it’s residue.  
The kind that won’t wash out,  
even when the body tries to forget  
where it bled.