I’ve got a ghost in the closet
and your name is written on it.
Lingers is the shame
in holding on.

I still set two plates out for dinner,
like grief might make me thinner.
Now I’ll chew on my regret
until it’s gone.

I sip my coffee black again,
the bitterness, a friend
that sticks around
when sweetness can’t belong.

You haunt the sleeves in all my sweaters.
Each silent moment—
a love letter
signed, then returned,
withdrawn.

I love you as I always will.
Though delayed, a fated seal.

I tell you what you want to hear,
that’s what you do too.

One day you’ll understand.
Too much,
Too wrong,
Too few.

What isn't consumed must be carried.
What you leave behind will always still count.

Crumbs gather
at the corners of my mouth.
Lips pursing,
I'll name it progress.

But the body will digest
what the mind can't push down.

So…
Is this feeling clarity,
or is it relapse?

Oh well.
On my plate,
I can still only stomach half.

I gave you  
half-full cups—  
to you, overflowing.  

I gave you  
measured warmth.  
Wrapped it in pretty,  
promised it was real.  

I called you  
gentle  
so I could become it.  

You brought me morning,  
the good kind,
and time I didn't earn.

You gave me home,
a stillness,
and hands that didn't ask.

I brought you mirrors.  
You stayed.  
I flinched.  

I don’t wish to hurt you.  
Only to leave gently,  
and that is still  
a kind of cruelty—  
to be kind.  

Even now,  
I measure sweetness  
in what we almost were.  

And still—  

My love,
I love
you, love,
not enough.

Leave a message!
I can’t answer now...
or later.

I couldn’t even have then.

I just forget your voice
sometimes.

In glimmering,
lingering,
longing
glances,

I seem to
revisit how we met.

This is our season, remember?

This was our season,
remember.