I speak to you as if you are listening,
as if the night does not swallow my voice whole,
as if these words are not carved into silence,
left to wither where no one will find them.

I have traced your absence in the dust of every dying star,
woven your name into midnight prayers
only the wind has heard.
I have built a life from longing,
left space for you at my table,
shared my laughter with empty rooms,
pretending you are just beyond the veil—
almost here, almost mine.

But the seasons turn, and you do not come.
The earth trembles with love songs meant for others,
and I wonder if you have forgotten me.
If you ever knew me at all.

I am tired of writing to ghosts,
tired of kissing the wind and calling it devotion.
How many more nights must I press my hands to the glass,
watching my own breath fade like the hope
I swore I would never lose?

Do you not ache as I do?
Do you not feel this pull,
this wound in the shape of me?
Or am I alone in this quiet grief,
mouthing your name to a world
that never knew how to answer?

How much longer?
How many more dawns must break
before your name is not a sigh
pressed against the wind?
I am tired of pretending
that you are here,
that the quiet is not hollow,
that my heart is not clawing at my ribs
like a caged thing desperate to be set free.

I would give it all:
every soft dream, every fragile hope
to no longer be a ghost in my own life,
waiting for the moment it begins.

If not in this life, then the next.
Or the next.
Or the one after that.
But gods, I do not want another life.
I do not want another lifetime of waiting.
I want you here. I want you now.
No more ghosts. No more prayers.

Just you.
At last.