There's a small ache that arrives at dusk. I've stopped trying to name it after anything else.
Fresh today · Sunday, 21 June
New Wishes
A handful of wishes pulled from the cabinet this morning. Pick one up — copy, save it to your pinboard, or send it on.
I miss the small mercies — your patience, your terrible singing, your way of making rooms slower.
Today the bakery still had your favorite. I bought one anyway. It tasted like waiting.
I think of you at red lights, in elevators, in the pause before someone answers.
You'd love the way the trees turned this year. I keep wanting to show you.
Even my best days have a small empty seat with your name penciled on it.
↑ pick one up
Browse by occasion
What are we writing today?
Cabinets sorted by occasion. Open one — pages are arranged by warmth, not algorithm.
- Anniversary
- Baby
- Belated
- Best
- Birthday
- Boy
- Boyfriend
- Christian
- Christmas
- Congratulation
- Diwali
- Easter
- Eid Mubarak
- Engagement
- Farewell
- Fathers Day
- Friendship
- Funny
- Get Well
- Girl
- Girlfriend
- Good Morning
- Good Night
- Graduation
- Hanukkah
- Heart Touching
- Holiday
- Invitation
- Job
- Love
- Miss You
- Mothers Day
- New Year
- Recovery
- Retirement
- Romantic
- Thank You
- Thanksgiving
- Wedding
- Well
- Women's Day
- Sympathy
- Valentine's Day
- Halloween
- Veterans Day
More from today
I miss being known without explaining. With you, sentences could afford to be shorter.
Some songs feel like trespassing now. I play them anyway, gently, like visiting a house.
The hours don't move quicker without you — they just go somewhere else.
I keep wanting to tell you the funny thing the dog did. The dog also misses you.
Whatever I'm doing, a quiet undercurrent of you runs through it.
I miss our normal — burnt toast, late starts, you mid-sentence in the doorway.
There's a softness I lose access to when you're not within voice-range.
I bookmarked a poem for you. It's been waiting like a small lamp left on.
Sometimes I think missing you is its own form of staying close.
The mailbox is empty in the specific way that only matters when you're far.
I miss the way mornings used to start with no hurry, only you yawning into a mug.
If thinking of someone could pull them closer, you'd be here by Tuesday at latest.
Come back when you can. I've left the porch light on, the kettle warm, the chair ready.
The office is quieter without your terrible morning jokes. We didn't realize how much we needed them.
Your desk looks scandalously tidy — proof you're really gone. Come back and clutter it properly.
Meetings drag longer without your eyebrow raised at exactly the right moment.
We're rationing the snacks you stocked. Morale dips a little each time the drawer empties.
The coffee machine still squeaks in the rhythm you taught it. We've decided not to fix it.
Nobody else explains the printer with your particular patience. We miss the calm.