Writers 
You don’t count the breaths
until the room goes still.
You don’t name the warmth
until the chair is cold.
You don't know the value of what you have until you lose it
We treat people like background noise
Until silence gets loud.
Now you're angry at yourself
Angry that you treated gold like dust because it was always within reach and easily accessible
It was just a voice in the kitchen.
Just a text at 2am.
Just hands that fixed what you broke
without asking why.
You called it “normal.”
You called it “always.”
You never called it “mine”
until “mine” became “was.”
And now you’re collecting echoes,
trying to remember the weight
of something you never thought you’d set down.
You don’t know the value
of what you have
until you’re praying
to get one more ordinary day with it.
You don’t get to miss it loudly
after you loved it quietly.
You don’t get to mourn what you never protected.
It's either you treat them right when you still have them or you'll continue looking for them in every other person you meet.
And now you sit across from the empty space
where love used to seat.
Setting two plates
for a ghost who stopped being hungry for you.
You finally learned how to love them
the day they learned how to live without you.
The chair is cold.
And it’s your fault!📌
