In a way, my world has become haunted.
Not in the supernatural sense,
But in the way a room feels different
After someone has left.
You walk into a museum
And your mind reaches for the person
Who should be standing beside you.
You find an interesting anecdote
And think of the one
Who would have appreciated it.
Soon, interest itself seems poisoned.
And so I turn to the one place
Where loss can be metabolized.
Writing, after all,
Was always fundamentally mine.
Even when I feel
I have lost custody
Of whole pieces of myself—
Pieces I cannot reach,
Because every path toward them
Passes through grief.
Writing is the tool
With which I will untangle them.
4d ago
May 31, 2026 at 8:14 PM UTC
In a way, my world has become haunted.
Not in the supernatural sense,
But in the way a room feels different
After someone has left.
You walk into a museum
And your mind reaches for the person
Who should be standing beside you.
You find an interesting anecdote
And think of the one
Who would have appreciated it.
Soon, interest itself seems poisoned.
And so I turn to the one place
Where loss can be metabolized.
Writing, after all,
Was always fundamentally mine.
Even when I feel
I have lost custody
Of whole pieces of myself—
Pieces I cannot reach,
Because every path toward them
Passes through grief.
Writing is the tool
With which I will untangle them.
