I pause mid-stride
  because you cross my mind
  like a bird shadowing the sidewalk—

  and the day forgets its next step.

A commercial flashes Marco’s Pizza
        and I melt a notch smaller,
the way ice gives in to a warm cup
            without making a sound.

A song you once sent starts playing—

I stop everything,
  let the lyrics flow through me in waves,

  waiting for the line you underlined with silence.

Is it just me?

I check flights I know I can’t take,
  toggle “flexible dates,”
  as if a calendar is what’s in the way

  and not the honest world between us.

At red lights I practice your hello.

The kettle finishes, and I don’t.

I stand there listening to steam
  say everything I meant to text.

(then I text nothing, because the steam said it better)

Is it just me?

I reread your last message for the way it breathes,
                                     not the words—
                                the rhythm of them,
                         the small lean at the end…

            the sound of a doorway left on purpose.

I pass a window and think “porch light,”
  pretending my chest is a neighborhood
            and you’re on your way home.

Is it just me?

I stack the tiny proofs on the table—
                  a saved voice memo,
     a ticket stub that never ripped,
 a receipt for a flight I didn’t buy…

                 and still feel rich.

Sometimes I answer out loud
     when no one has asked anything.

Sometimes I put an extra plate down
                         then laugh,
                      then leave it—
            because the empty space
              makes the room honest.

Am I the only one?

Or do you also catch yourself
   counting the quiet between our messages,
  measuring the distance in breath lengths,

  finding me in the places only you would know to look?

If it *is* just me, I’ll carry it—
                        this soft,
               ridiculous weather.

And if it isn’t,
    send the smallest sign—
       a dot,
        door,
        “mm”—

    so I can practice saying “there you are”
  into the part of the day that was waiting.

(And either way—
                 I’ll keep a seat warm where the TV glow gets friendly,
                 the kettle learns your name,
                 and the first thing that happens when the key turns
                 is *not* words,
                 but that quiet that fits us perfectly.)