I don’t know if I should call it absence,
when in every corner of this house
you leave your shadow hanging.
The air fills with your steps,
even though I don’t hear them;
and the walls whisper your name,
without me asking them to.
You’re not far.
There’s no distance between the memory
and the weight of your laugh,
which stays here,
as if it had made a nest.
Your voice doesn’t fade,
still wandering between the days,
blending with my own thoughts,
as if you were the thread that holds my silence.
I don’t know if this is absence.
How can I call it lack
when you never fully leave?
How can I feel emptiness
when your presence settles
like a dim light,
that doesn’t seek to shine,
but never ceases to be?
You, who are not here,
but always are.
Every day you leave
and at the same time you stay.
No, this isn’t absence.
It’s another way of being,
one that knows no borders
or bodies, or time,
we are, because we have each other.
