I still stalk about you— in rooms you’ve never been, through digital shadows and half-lit memories where your voice once lived.
I trace your name in the fog of mirrors, click through photos like rosary beads, each one a tiny ache, a litany of ifs.
I scroll until my fingers numb, searching for the shape of you in strangers’ reflections— the curve of a laugh, the outline of a jacket you once wore into winter.
I know your new routines. The ones that don’t include me. The songs you’ve added, the cities you’ve ghosted through. Even your smiles feel rehearsed now— or maybe they always were.
I haunt the timelines like a relic looking for worship. Like maybe you’ll post a sign that you remember me too.
But you never do.
Still, I stalk about you— in quiet hours and reckless ones, when my body forgets how to be alone without whispering your name into the dark like a warning.
There is no closure. Just the endless echo of someone who once looked back but didn’t stop.