they were never mine to miss

but the ache settled into me like a soft inheritance

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I grieve someone I never met.

Not in the way poems mourn stars.

But in the way a room feels haunted before you know who left.

There’s a tenderness to it. A bruise I don’t remember earning.

A weight I carry without knowing who gave it to me.

A sadness shaped like someone I was meant to know. But never will.

I feel them like a presence that never introduced itself. But stayed anyway.

Like music half-remembered from dreams I’m not sure were mine.

Like a feeling that arrives before the thought does.

In my teeth, it stayed. On my tongue, it trembled.

A love so invisible it made my voice shake. And when I spoke, it remembered itself.

It tasted like a party paused mid-breath.

Sugar floating. Cake untouched.

Like I’d shown up to a birthday meant for a silence I’d always known.

They exist in my bones somehow.

Like a memory that never happened but still lingers.

In the way a room breathes before anyone enters it. Like it was waiting, not just empty.

In the pull I feel toward old photographs I’ve never seen.

Perhaps I loved the ghost of what they could’ve been.

Like a goodbye I was born remembering.

I imagine some hearts recognize each other even if the bodies never did.

It feels sacred, somehow. Like longing with manners. Like mourning wrapped in curiosity.

Some days, it’s gentle. A soft thump beneath routine.

Other days, it bellows like a secret I promised to keep without ever knowing why.

I don’t know their name. But I remember how missing them feels.

They are the story I’ll never tell.

The sweetness where my voice cracks.

I think they live there.

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They exist in my mouth. They flavor my language. Even “I’m fine” tastes like them.

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Your readership is a gift. Thank you for being here.

Love, Maddie

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