Witness

There are moments
that feel too large to hold alone—
not because they are unbearable,
but because there is no one to turn to and say,
did you see that?

The day passes anyway.
It always does.

But something is missing in the quiet after—
no one to sit beside it,
no one to let it land between us.

I imagine you sometimes—
not in grand ways,
just in the small ones.

A hand that does not need asking.
A body that knows when words have run out.
A collar, dampened where my face would rest.

Someone who would remember the shape of my days,
who would carry pieces of me
so I did not have to hold it all.

Someone who would stay when the night stretches too far,
listening to the rain
as if it belongs to both of us.

I do not need saving.

But there are moments I would like to be held
as if I did not have to be the one
who carries everything.

And it is that absence—
more than anything—
that lingers.