There are things I still write

 There are things I still write… even though you’re not here to read them.

I write them anyway.
Because love doesn’t stop just because the listener is gone.
It just learns a different place to land.
I write your name in quiet moments.
Not on paper anymore…
but somewhere deeper.
Somewhere no one else can see.
I write it when the house feels too still.
When the air feels like it’s waiting for something that won’t arrive.
When I pass your favorite spot and my heart forgets, just for a second, that it’s empty now.
And I think—
maybe you can still feel it.
Maybe what we had didn’t end.
Maybe it only moved.
Because I don’t write like you’re far away.
I write like you’re still nearby.
Just… not in the way I used to understand.
There are letters I never finished.
Words I stopped halfway through because my hands didn’t know how to carry the weight of them.
But I think you read them anyway.
Not with eyes.
Not with sound.
But in the way love understands things without being told.
Sometimes I imagine you resting in a place beyond all this noise.
A place where nothing hurts you anymore.
A place where you can finally breathe without effort.
And I wonder if you ever feel the pull of what I still write.
Not sadness.
Not grief.
But something softer.
Something like warmth remembering warmth.
I still tell you about my days.
Not out loud.
But in the quiet space between thoughts.
As if you’re still the one I naturally turn to.
As if you never left the rhythm of my life.
And maybe that’s the truth I didn’t understand before.
That love doesn’t require presence.
It only requires continuation.
So I keep writing.
Even when there’s no reply.
Even when the pages stay still.
Even when the only sound is memory breathing back at me.
Because what we were didn’t disappear.
It simply became invisible.
And I think that’s where you stay now.
Not behind me.
Not ahead of me.
But inside every word I still write when no one is watching.
Written where you stay.
And where you will always be.