𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘗𝘢𝘳𝘵 𝘖𝘧 𝘔𝘦 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘋𝘪𝘦𝘥 𝘞𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘏𝘪𝘮

Some days I swear I can still hear him —  

not with my ears,  

but with that ruined place in my chest  

that learned how to scream quietly  

the day he left.

I don’t talk about it much,  

how losing him didn’t feel like a moment  

but a collapse.  

Like the floor gave out  

and never came back.

He wasn’t just my dad.  

He was the one person  

who could say my name  

and make me feel like I wasn’t failing  

at being alive.

And now he’s gone,  

and I’m still here,  

trying to carry a world  

that used to be shared.

I miss him in ways  

that don’t have language.  

In ways that feel physical —  

like someone carved out a rib  

and forgot to stitch me shut.

People say “he’s watching over you,”  

but that’s not what I want.  

I want his voice.  

His laugh.  

His footsteps in the hallway.  

His arms around me  

when life was too heavy  

for someone my size.

I want one more conversation  

where I don’t have to pretend  

I’m okay.

I want him back.  

Not as a memory.  

Not as a sign.  

Not as a lesson in grief.

Just him.  

Alive.  

Here.  

Calling me kiddo  

in that way that made the world  

feel survivable.

But instead I get this —  

this ache that wakes up with me,  

this missing that never softens,  

this love that has nowhere to go  

except back into the wound.

And on days like today,  

when he’s heavy on my mind,  

I swear the universe tilts.  

I swear I can feel the exact shape  

of the part of me  

that died with him.

And I carry it anyway.  

Because he would want me to.  

Because he loved me that much.  

Because grief is just love  

with nowhere left to land.

And because some bonds  

don’t end —  

they echo.

-𝕃ℝ 🖤