I miss you, Robin—soft as dusk’s first sigh, the hush between two heartbeats when you speak. Your voice, a lamplight on a rainy night, turns ordinary words to warmth I keep.I miss the little songs you hum awake, the way a melody would find your smile, each gentle phrase a bridge I long to cross when silence stretches out its empty mile.I miss your eyes—the small, unspoken maps that chart the weather of your tender mind; expressions like a language only I have learned by touch and memory, outlined.I miss the way your laughter fills the air, and how you tilt your head to hide a grin; the quiet courage in the way you love, the soft assurance that I’m home again.If longing had the shape of mornings spent beneath the hush of coffee steam and light, I’d keep a dozen dawns to feel you near, to hear your voice unspool the dark to bright.
