I say my name aloud in the silence,
to hear it settle in the room,
to remember that breathing
is not the same as disappearing.
If you pass me in the street like air,
know this:
I learned the shape of your leaving
by staying long enough to feel it.
You can tell the story without a ghost,
smooth as pavement underfoot.
But I am still here,
measuring what was taken
by the space it left behind.
This is what your silence did.
It carved its outline in me
and failed to empty it.
I did not disappear.
I remained—
long enough to know the difference.