If You’re Still Listening

I wish I had more time with you. Not for closure— not for peace— but just to be with you. To breathe in the same moment without feeling it slipping through my fingers. The day left like you did— too fast, too quiet, without warning. And I’m still here, asking the sky why you couldn’t stay. I keep thinking about your hand. How it used to hold mine like it meant something. Like I meant something. Do you remember that? Or did you let it all go the second I looked away? I think of you constantly— when the sun rises too cold, when the moon hangs too low. I wonder if you ever think of me at all. I know you’re gone. But God, I wish you weren’t. And even now, even after all of it, I’d still hold your hand if you reached back.