If I could hold you again

 If I could hold you again,

I wouldn’t waste a single heartbeat.

I’d pull you close and memorize everything —
the curve of your ear,
the rhythm of your breathing,
the way your eyes said more than words ever could.

I’d thank you for every moment you gave me —
the mornings you waited by the door,
the nights you kept me safe in silence,
the years you loved me without question.

If I could hold you again,
I wouldn’t ask for forever.
Just enough time to say,
“You saved me.”

Because you did.
You still do.

Even now, when I reach for the leash that isn’t there,
or wake expecting your weight beside me —
your love fills the empty spaces.

They say grief is love with nowhere to go,
but I think love always finds a way.
It travels in dreams,
in memories,
in the soft ache that never fades —
a reminder that I was once loved perfectly.

So if I could hold you again,
I’d tell you what my heart already knows:
we never really let go.
We just learn how to keep holding differently.