Conversations That Never Happened

I talk to people I’ve lost like they’re still here. In the kitchen, or on the train, or brushing my teeth at night. I say what I should’ve said. I say it slowly, beautifully. They always understand in these versions. They nod. They smile. They don’t leave. I replay it again. This is not denial. This is architecture. I am building a home for grief to rest. Some people leave without cleaning up their sentences. So I dust them off. Hang them in my chest like portraits. I visit. I forgive. I forget. Then I start over.