My phone stays quiet on the table. The hallway holds the afternoon. I still turn to tell you something, Then stop before I leave the room. Your cup still waits beside the kettle. Dust gathers softly on the rim. I keep collecting little stories As if you might come back for them. I knew that I would miss your body. I knew the nights would feel too long. I never knew how much I’d miss The place where all my words belonged. Who do I tell now When something good happens? Who gets the first words When everything falls apart? You were the first one, Before anyone else. Now I carry every story And keep it to myself. This house has forgotten your noise. The floorboards keep their secrets now. I leave the television talking To fill the rooms you emptied out. I still buy the bread you wanted. It hardens slowly by the stove. It isn’t only you I’m missing— It’s all the things you’ll never know. I thought the silence might get smaller. I thought the days would close the space. But every ordinary moment Still turns around to find your face. Who do I tell now When something good happens? Who gets the first words When everything falls apart? You were the first one, Before anyone else. Now I carry every story And keep it to myself. If I had one hour with you, I wouldn’t waste it asking why. I’d tell you that the roses opened Three weeks earlier this time. Nothing grand. No final answer. Just every little thing that’s happened Since I lost the one who’d understand. Who do I tell now When something good happens? Who gets the first words When everything falls apart? You were the first one, Before anyone else. Now I carry every story— I still save them all for you. My phone stays quiet on the table. I still have so much to tell you.
