It’s not the milestones
or the big declarations —
not the trips,
the anniversaries,
or the plans we never finished.
It’s the little things.
The way laughter filled the hallway
before either of us said a word.
The way a couch became a haven
when your head found my chest
like it had always belonged there.
The way you ran to the door
like love was urgent.
The way silence never scared us —
because presence
was louder than words.
It’s the soft shuffle
of bare feet across tile
calling me to bed
without saying a thing.
The unspoken language
of fingertips and timing.
It’s how ordinary things
felt sacred.
How ice cream and TV
somehow held more weight
than the world outside.
I miss what can’t be staged.
I miss the glances
that forgave
before the words caught up.
I miss the comfort
of being chosen
without condition.
And maybe that’s love —
not the firework,
but the flame.
The steady kind.
The kind that waits quietly
on a well-worn couch
still holding the shape
of something real.