Void

I write to you with great anger.
I write of you, with the same ache.

After you left,
my first thought was grief.
I kept replaying the words I said,
and the ones I should've said, but never did.

The second one was bitterness.
for I remembered that you never said the words either.
Not yes.
Not no.

After you left,
I stood there alone,
watching the back of your car disappear,
lifting my eyes to the empty sky.

Memory is a cruel thing.
Especially when all it holds
are good memories.
No, not just good ones.
The best ones.

Maybe that's why I still call you.
Just to hear your voice once more.
Just to see your name light up my phone again.
Just to feel, for a moment,
like those days have not vanished.

I know you want it to stop.
I know you think I want it to stop too.
But the truth is,
I'm not ready for it to end.

There is a pedestal still standing here.
And I worry about it sometimes.

It was built for you.
I don't know how it survives
carrying the weight of your absence.

I worry about that pedestal
you left behind.
Because, like me,
it was built for you.