this infatuation follows me everywhere
—a ghost that does not realize it is dead.
it is still convinced it has some life left,
it is still convinced it is welcome in the home
you let it thrive in until there was nothing left to feed it.
it is still convinced you wanted it to live;
it is still convinced you cared enough to try.
the difference between our graveyards
is you never had anything to bury.

I still put flowers by our potential.
I still water a garden of wilting plants
that look like the first time you didn't say good morning,
that look like the waning smile on your lips,
that look like the hesitation when I asked
if you ever felt anything at all.
they keep withering
until the only remnant of our relationship
is a headstone that reads
here: lies.