In your absence, it has been hard not to take more notice of the spaces between everything, and the way they are just longing to be filled by the things that might just fit right or by the things that don’t, but feel right anyway — just as you once did, alongside me among old bedsheets used as picnic blankets and grass between our feet and sweat that felt like the stickiness of glue from the side of my forehead leaning into the crevice of your bare shoulder, where I never used to notice any kind of empty space at all.
