I miss you. you fucking person.

The clothes you gave me

still carry something I cannot explain—

perhaps the warmth of all those days

when having you beside me

made even the cold feel warm again.

And sometimes, when I wear them,

I wonder if you ever knew

how much of you could remain

in something as simple as fabric,

how something you once gave

could still feel so much like you.

The perfume you gave me

still lingers in the air,

quiet, soft, and almost familiar,

and whenever its scent finds me,

for a moment, I swear

I can almost feel you there.

The little things you made yourself

still sit where I left them,

each crooked edge and careful line

holding pieces of your time.

They may be imperfect to another's eyes,

but to me, they remain precious—

because they carry the touch

of hands that once held mine.

Even the flowers you gave me

have become memories of their own.

Their petals fell, their colors faded,

and time took what it was shown,

yet I still remember how they looked

when you placed them in my hands,

as if you had gathered something beautiful

and trusted me to understand.

And your letters—

I still keep the words between their pages.

Sometimes I read them slowly,

letting every sentence stay,

not because I have forgotten what they say,

but because I miss the voice

that once gave those words a name,

the voice that made simple letters

feel like something more than ink on a page.

The little accessories you gave me

still find their way into my days,

resting quietly against me

like small and silent reminders

of the love you used to give

in so many little ways.

But perhaps the greatest thing

you ever gave me

was never something I could hold—

it was the way you believed in me

when I couldn't believe in myself,

the reassurance in your voice,

the patience when I lost my way,

the little reminders that I could keep going

when I had nothing left to say.

You gave me pieces of yourself

without asking me to understand

how precious they would become

when you were no longer around,

how memories could live in objects,

how love could linger in things,

how someone could leave your life

yet somehow remain

in almost everything.

And now,

after everything has ended,

I find myself still holding onto them.

Not because I believe

they will somehow bring you back,

and not because I cannot accept

that some things are meant to end—

but because what mattered once

does not become meaningless

simply because it could not last.

So I keep the clothes.

I keep the scent.

I keep the handmade things,

the faded flowers,

the letters,

the little things you left with me.

I keep them

because they are no longer simply things.

They are pieces of days gone by,

little fragments of a life

that once belonged to you and I.

They are proof

that, once upon a time,

you were here—

that you loved me,

that I loved you,

that for a while,

we were something real,

something I could touch,

something I could feel.

And perhaps that is why

I still miss them so much—

because whenever I touch

something you gave me,

I am reminded that what I truly miss

was never what you left behind.

It was the warmth in the clothes,

the scent that lingers in the air,

the flowers that once bloomed,

the words you left with care.

It was never the things themselves

that made them worth holding onto.

It was you.