the anatomy of absence

the ache of absence drifts through me,

a slow, insistent tide beneath the skin,

my marrow softening, pliant.

i press my hands into it—

as one might press a wound

as one presses the earth for a footprint,

hoping for traction,

hoping for purchase,

hoping for relief.

it travels along the quiet architecture of my body,

lodges behind the eyes,

nestles between my ribs,

dirties the underneath of my fingernails—

a geography of missing.

i catalog it meticulously,

measure its rhythm like a loud clock

i cannot stop,

i name it carefully

because naming is the only way i feel alive.

i trace the absence with my fingers,

map the negative space of where you should have been.

air presses back, cold, unyielding.

the tide rises anyway,

and i am left to witness it,

to catalog the ache as it reshapes me,

and in the observation

perhaps

there is a kind of proof

that i am still here.