I talk to you more than people think

 I talk to you more than people think.

Not out loud,
not always—
but in that quiet language grief teaches us,
the one that lives somewhere
between memory and hope.

I tell you I miss you.
I tell you the days are different now.
I tell you that sometimes
I still reach out in the dark
expecting to feel your warmth beside me.

And somewhere inside,
something answers.

A feeling that doesn’t quite belong to memory alone—
warmer,
fuller,
like love traveling back across a bridge
that never really broke.

It feels like you.
The real you.
The way you were.
The way you still are
in whatever gentle place you roam now.

Sometimes it’s a sudden calm
in the middle of a hard moment.
Sometimes it’s the way my chest loosens
after thinking your name.
Sometimes it’s a dream
so real it leaves an imprint on my morning.

That’s how I know—
when I write to you with my heart,
you write me back with yours.

Your replies come in warmth,
in stillness,
in that soft ache that somehow comforts
instead of crushes.

We’re still talking,
you and I.
Still connected.
Still choosing each other
across worlds we don’t fully understand.

And maybe that’s what love becomes
when one of us has to walk ahead—
a quiet correspondence
between earth and heaven.

My heart writes you endlessly,
and every time,
you find a way
to write me back.