I used to look for her,
when the streets felt too quiet,
when hours stretched too long,
when my world felt a little emptier without her voice to fill the space.

She used to find me too,
smiling, stepping close, like I was something worth seeking,
like maybe she had been looking for me first.

I’d ask for her when she wasn’t there,
but the answers were always the same—
“She went out,” “She’s sleeping.”
Like she was slipping away before I even had the chance to hold on.

I miss her.
Not just the way she laughed,
or the way she always found her way to me, but the way her presence felt like gravity, keeping me steady, keeping me whole.

There were times I wanted more—
to kiss her,
to touch her,
to let my hands speak the words I never dared to say.
But I held back, afraid of losing even this, afraid she’d pull away and never come back.

I tease her in my memories,
call her small,
watch her huff,
but all I ever wanted was to pull her close,
to stay in that moment a little longer.

And maybe,
just maybe,
if she asked,
I’d never let go.