You’re gone and I don’t miss you anymore

You’re gone and I don’t miss you anymore. Not because I never missed you. I just can’t remember what the alternative was. What did you look like? Your face as you told a story. Was there a glint in your eye? Was it the same as mine? You can’t get that from a photo, so I don’t really look at them any more.
I don’t hear your voice, or if I do, it’s my voice. But it didn’t sound like that. I remember phrases, things you said. But the way you said them holds no space. The way we sing is the same, or so I’m told

I’m a different person now. But I carry you still. Or do I? I carry a version of you that exists only for me. How can I miss you when you aren’t here? When I wasn’t there?

I don’t miss you anymore. But there should be a word for whatever this is.