When the Space Beside Me Is Empty

It’s not just the warmth of your skin I miss, or the curve of your body curling toward mine it’s something far deeper, like a whisper missing its echo, a prayer searching for the breath that made it.

When you are not beside me, the silence hums with your absence. The bed becomes a vast horizon, and the stars feel farther away, as if they, too, ache with the distance.

It’s not about needing you to fill a void it’s that when you’re near, I remember more fully who I am. Your presence is a mirror, reflecting the softest truths of my soul, truths I sometimes forget alone.

When our bodies share sleep, it is not just rest, it is return. To a sacred rhythm, a breath that synchronizes, a stillness that speaks without words.

And yet, I honor the space. I do not clutch. Love is not possession, it is presence. But oh, how the presence lingers, how your scent stays woven into the night, how your absence becomes a kind of teacher.

Because in missing you, I remember how much the soul can stretch. How love, when real, expands even in separation. It does not shrink, it deepens.

So while the pillow is cold and the room too quiet, I close my eyes and feel you in the spaces where spirit touches spirit beyond skin, beyond time.

And I smile, because missing you is also a way of loving you.