The Sound of Missing You

The coffee has gone cold, and the rain against the glass only knows how to whisper your name in a language I cannot silence.

The coffee has gone cold. It sits there, a dark, stagnant pool in the white ceramic mug you bought me three winters ago. I haven’t moved it. I haven’t drunk it. I’ve just been watching the steam disappear, much like the warmth in this house did when you walked out the door.

They say that silence is empty, but they are wrong. The silence in this apartment is heavy. It screams. It bounces off the walls where your photos used to hang, leaving rectangular shadows of dust that look like ghosts.

The rain against the glass only knows how to whisper your name in a language I cannot silence. Tap. Tap. Tap. A rhythm that matches the anxious beating of a heart that hasn’t quite realized it’s supposed to beat alone now.

I picked up the phone today. I dialed six digits of your number before I remembered that I am no longer the person you want to hear from. So, I told the rain instead. I hope it finds its way to your window, falls softly against your glass, and reminds you—even for a second—of the warmth we used to share.