I miss you, Robin — in the hush before dawn, when the world holds its breath and remembers your name. Your voice, a soft ribbon of light, winds through the room and leaves the air sweeter for having known it. I replay the cadence of your laughter like a favorite song, each note a small compass that once pointed me home. Your words were gentle weather, warming worn places, and your silence — a kind, careful harbor where I could anchor. I miss the way your face told stories without peaking: a quick bright smile, a brow that bent with thought, the tremor of wonder that set your eyes to singing. Those expressions were constellations I learned by heart. Sometimes I close my eyes and try to catch the shape of your breath, the rhythm of your patience. I miss the easy truth of your presence, how it made ordinary rooms into places that remembered sunlight better. Love for you is a steady lantern I carry at night, its flame fed by memory, by longing, by the echo of your name.
