memory

I miss the smooth, soothing quality that your voice had over me when we talk in real life. I miss the gentle strength in your hands and in the way you carried yourself. I miss the light breeze of your breath as we stand next to each other, the steady rhythm reminding me of your presence. In your absence, my memory gives me faint shadows of your comforting presence, and in your presence, my consciousness conveniently takes no notice of the smaller details. But over the phone, as we argued and as we reconciled, the tiniest details played out, over and over again, I choked, not because we had fought, but because I remembered.

I said nothing in reply when you told me that you missed me, but you knew that the depth of my yearning was as infinite as the silence of my response.