NaPoWriMo – Day 5

The air is heavy with almosts.
Even the walls seem to miss you.
They echo less now,
as if they, too,
are trying not to break.

The silence sounds like you,
and I forgot how you taste.
The memory flickers
but never settles.
A ghost of you lingers
in the folds of sleep,
fingertips tracing the shape of loss,
lips that never reach mine.

I wake to the scent
of something unfinished,
a presence
just beyond reach.
Your name,
still warm on my tongue,
but fading,
like light through closed eyes.
And still,
the air is heavy
with almosts.