What I Miss the Most

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.