You’ll see me on the bus, in the woman who holds the door so you don’t miss it.
You’ll feel me in clean, warm sheets as you climb into bed, the kind that make you close your eyes, smile to yourself, and sink in just a little deeper.
You’ll hear me in the whisper of branches on the perfect windy day, as the breeze brushes your cheek like a familiar hand.
You’ll taste me in your favorite soup—warm, rich, and filling— the kind I made on cold afternoons when the world felt a little too heavy.
I am the comfort your mind reaches for before it knows it’s searching.
I am the blanket you held tightly as a child.
I am a mother’s embrace after a scraped knee.
My soul knows yours. It has known you before this life, and it will know you long after this one.
So when the world reminds you of my love, there will be nothing to reach for.
Only the outline of what once held you.
I leave you with the corpse of my depth
close enough to remember,
never close enough to hold.


















