I Remember Being Loved

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I’ve been loved before.
That’s the problem.
Not in some distant, poetic sense—
I mean real love.
The kind that shows up in dumb arguments
about nothing,
where neither of us even remembers
what we were mad about,
just that we didn’t want to stay mad.
The kind that lived in glances.
Quick ones.
Unspoken ones.
The kind that said
yeah… it’s you.
We talked about forever
like it was already signed and delivered.
Like time itself had agreed
to leave us alone.
Now I sit in rooms
that haven’t changed at all—
same walls, same air—
but something’s missing
in a way that doesn’t make sense.
Like I misplaced a feeling
and it never turned up.
It’s not dramatic.
It doesn’t bleed.
It doesn’t scream.
It just… hums.
Low. Constant.
Like something inside me
is remembering
what it used to carry.
Phantom limb love.
I reach for moments
that aren’t there anymore—
still feel them sometimes,
like muscle memory
refusing to accept reality.
I remember being seen.
Not looked at—
seen.
Like I existed in full resolution
in someone else’s world.
Now it’s quiet.
Not peaceful quiet—
the kind that replaces something.
And the worst part is
I know exactly what’s missing.
Because I’ve had it.
And once you’ve been loved like that,
you don’t forget the weight of it—
even after it’s gone.

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