Something is missing, I keep telling myself,
a small ache with no name and no shape,
and some days it swallows the light in a room.
Something is missing, and for years
I called it a wound, called it a fault,
something broken that leaked all my hours.
Something is missing — but lately, quietly,
I've started to wonder if it isn't a wound at all,
only an open hand, waiting for weather to change.
Something is missing, and tonight, for the first time,
that doesn't feel like losing.
It feels like room.
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