Omissions

I don’t catch you in lies— you’re too careful for that.

You hand me daylight
without ever mentioning the night you walked through.

And I—
I stand there, holding a clean sentence feeling the dirt underneath it.

Something is always missing but never named.

Like a chair pulled out
from a table I didn’t see set.

Like a door still warm
from being closed
just before I arrived.

You speak in completed thoughts, but I hear the hinge—that small metallic truth swinging somewhere just outside the room.

I tried to name you like weather, to soften the edges of you—but even storms confess.

Even the tide tells on itself.

So I begin to doubt
my own architecture

maybe the house was always this uneven

maybe the floor was meant to tilt like this

maybe the silence is mine.

But no—it’s the way you curate reality like a careful museum
every absence framed
as if it belongs.

And I walk through it,
quiet, hands behind my back, trying not to touch
what isn’t there.

To be continued