Everything Reminds Me You’re Still Gone


I hear the planes outside my window,
a constant I’ve learned to accept
like the change of seasons
or dogs barking at night
or the tiredness in my bones
or being so far away
from you.
Tonight, I can no longer extend my arm
and reach across the space between us.
I can no longer run my fingers through your hair
or press my thumb to your temple,
relieving the stress of your day.
Tonight, I can only hear the static
hum through the telephone line.
Then the click, the pause, the intake of breath
before I say your name,
the syllables catching
on my tongue.
And why is it that I’ve become so accustomed
to the thought of my life
without you in it?
Like planes and waves and leaves
falling in autumn—familiar—
is learning how to unlove you.