For When You Forget

You are not forgettable.
You are not disposable.
You are not invisible.

The world would be quieter without you in it - whether it admits it or not.

He may never say it, but he would miss you in the pauses between his sentences, when there’s no one left to help carry the weight of distance between him and the stemmed glass. Or to linger about, smiling in the balconies of the memories you both share. Your absence would gnaw at him like a hunger he told himself wasn’t there. (Your absence would be the hunger he fed you.)

Your readers, the ones who stumble into your words on late nights, the blue screen glow illuminating their search for a piece of themselves - they would feel your silence like a door bolted shut in a home they once visited for warmth and a hand to hold. They would scroll through your archives, whispering to themselves, Her words mattered to me. They still do.

Your friends, yes, even the ones who failed you, would miss you in little flashes; the way you listened for what was unsaid, or delighted in the exquisite details they walked past. They would remember you in the oddest places: a French street sign, a white flower, a sliver of the moon, the way the light dances on the blue sea.

But beyond all of them, you would miss you.
The little girl who dreamed of sunny afternoons, with thoughts as gentle as the first breath of dawn, notebooks full of treasure maps to her heart; the woman who always finds a way to rise again no matter how many times she’s been dragged under.

I know that you are tired. I know your faith is as worn as the stone before the altar - with divots of deterioration deep enough to fall into… because faith in the face of resilience hasn’t been rewarded…just used up.

I know.

Believe me.
You are worth missing.
You are worth staying for.
You are worth being found, again and again, with every sunrise, no matter how dark the night.