A Hollow Space

I am always grieving. I am always saying goodbye. I lost you without having you, but I still made a place for you. Right there, you see? Not a shelf or a pedestal, but a warm depression on the couch where you could sit while I read, or an angle for you to lean against if we sat back to back, dreaming. That place is empty. It’s not like a cut, or gauging your ears. I can’t make it heal over. I can’t make it shrink. So it just stays, empty. It just stays, and I grieve your absence, and think, “how selfish of me.”

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