My Life In Word

It hurts in the place
where your hand used to be—
small fingers waiting
for yours to close around them
like a promise.

You let go quietly.
Not a yank, not a break—
just a loosening
I didn’t understand
until I was already alone.

It hurts at the table
where your laughter lives
for everyone else,
bright as a candle
I am not allowed to touch.

For me, there is only
the scrape of forks,
the sound of swallowing words
that never make it out.

It hurts in the air
between us—
cold, even when you smile,
like winter sitting
in a room full of sunlight.

I watch you love the world
with open arms,
wonder what I did
to make me
unworthy of holding.

You never called me
your disappointment,
but I learned the language
of absence—
how not reaching
can say everything.

It hurts in my chest
where I keep asking
what I did wrong,
and no one answers.

If I stay very still,
very quiet,
very good—
will you come back
and find me?

Simona A. Brinson

Photo by Joshua Oluwagbemiga on Unsplash

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