Grief in the Body: The Ache for Closeness

Some losses
don’t speak in words.

They hum beneath the surface—
in breath that catches for no reason,
in the stillness
where your warmth used to live.

It’s not even the heartbreak
that hurts the most.
It’s the silence
where you once were.
The echo of your touch
haunting the edges of my skin.

I miss the way being near you
softened the world.

The way your presence
steadied my rhythm,
like you could feel
the chaos beneath my calm.

You didn’t ask questions.
You just fit.
And now—
now there’s a hollow
where that feeling used to rest.

People don’t talk about this part.

The craving for closeness.
The way the body aches
for something more than memory.

They call it weakness—
as if needing to be held
means you’re broken.
As if grief
should be quiet,
noble,
clean.

But they’ve never known
what it’s like
to find safety
in someone’s hands.

You weren’t just affection.
You were stillness.
You were permission.
You were the one place
I didn’t have to pretend
I wasn’t unraveling.

And now—
now everything is too bright,
too sharp,
too wide.

I remember how you held me—
not just with arms,
but with your eyes,
with your voice,
with that silence
you let me keep.

Now my body remembers you
even when my mind is too tired
to try.

And no—
I’m not ashamed
of wanting that again.
Of needing comfort.
Of aching for the soft place
your absence used to be.

This, too,
is grief.

And if I need to say it—
just to make the silence
hurt a little less—

I will.

Because you…
you were one of the only things
that ever made sense.