When the missing gets so heavy
I can barely breathe; I tell myself this:
you didn't leave me.
You just arrived early.
You didn't get to stay.
You didn't get to grow old,
to see the future we were counting on.
I hate that your story ended
while mine is still being written.
But I refuse to believe this is the end.
I believe you're simply waiting
a little further down the road.
And when I finally get there,
I hope your face is the first I see.
Until then, save me a place beside you.
One day, I'll walk in,
and we'll be together again.
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