I remember you fixing the chain on the old bike and grinning like it was nothing.

I kept your grocery receipt folded in my wallet and it still smells faintly of the deli.

I miss the way you nodded when I talked about nothing in particular.

I keep thinking of the soft apology you gave when you burned the toast.

I miss your elbow on the armrest when we shared a narrow couch.

I remember you taping the movie ticket to the inside of a book and thinking it was clever.

I miss the tiny pile of coins you collected on the dresser and counted on slow evenings.

I found the label from the plant you brought home and felt that small, steady comfort.

I miss how you always checked the backseat for your sunglasses before driving off.

I keep the little packet of sugar from that café and it smells like that afternoon.

I want to tell you I miss the quiet way you sat reading at three in the afternoon.

I remember you whispering the wrong lyrics and insisting they were better that way.

I miss your shoes by the door; seeing them empty still pulls at me.

I keep replaying your voice saying my name the night I drove too far.

I miss that tiny scar on your thumb from when you tried to open a stuck window.

I opened the jar of jam and tasted summer and you were right there in it.

I miss the steady way you made plans and then changed them for something silly.

I remember smelling your jacket at the back of the closet and it felt like a page I can reread.

I found the dried leaf you tucked in my notebook and it made me breathe slower.

I miss how you would press the doorbell twice when you were impatient.

I keep thinking about the small pride in your face after you fixed the broken chair.

I still hear your laugh when the toast burns and we start over.

I remember the baseball cap you wore backward the summer we painted the fence.

I smiled at the grocery list you left—‘bananas, milk, pick you up’—and then missed you.

I miss the tiny dents on your favorite spoon from years of stirring.

I have this quiet wish to hear your phone buzzing with a message from me.

I remember you stealing the blanket the first week we lived together.

I keep the paper train ticket because your clumsy signature made me grin.

I miss the way you folded the corner of every page before bed.

I feel warm thinking of the small jokes only we find funny.

You left your flashlight on the dresser and I used it to find my keys, and it made me laugh.

I like remembering you humming the tune you made up for our late-night walks.

I still have a bit of popcorn in my coat from the film we fell asleep during.

I keep thinking about the time you rewore the blue scarf from that rainy day.

Remember the chipped mug you insisted fit your palm better than any other cup?

I miss your hand fiddling with the radio knob when the signal cut out.

I found the receipt from the bakery we went to and smiled at how you ordered the cinnamon roll without asking.

I feel proud telling my sister about the time you fixed the heater.

I promise to answer the door at midnight when you come home from work.

I like that you keep one pillow out of line; it means you relaxed here.