The thought of you still haunts my mind — ghosting each other;
still you echo in old pet names, those childish spells we cast: calling
me babe, you were my boo — now they sound like haunted nursery
rhymes.
_Ugghh!_ Self-cringing at the memories, self-sabotaging with these
rewinds. Getting lost in your mirage; a thirst that never quite learned
its lesson. Back then, I parked at the corner of love — these days, my
heart’s engine won’t even start. My drive stays parked in the garage.
We once kissed without question, and now I question every last kiss.
When they say I still love you, I deny it like an alibi that no longer fits.
But the truth is: half this story belongs to me, though I wrote every
chapter like a reader discovering my own heartbreak, turning pages,
rereading scenes I swore I’d forgotten, still hoping the ending changes
somehow. We had our teasers, those sweet previews of our forever.
But our forever got cancelled mid-season, and I’m stuck watching
reruns of us, in the quiet glow of what could’ve been.
Now your reflection lingers in the glass of every unfinished thought,
I try to wipe it clean, but ghosts don’t leave fingerprints — but their
fingers brush over your skin in these dreams.
You and I were once a plot that burned too bright, two names inked
in passion’s draft, now crossed out and fading. And so, we’ve met our
conclusion; lovers turned legends in a ghost story that still tells itself
at night.
Nov 12, 2025
Nov 12, 2025 at 11:11 PM UTC
The thought of you still haunts my mind — ghosting each other;
still you echo in old pet names, those childish spells we cast: calling
me babe, you were my boo — now they sound like haunted nursery
rhymes.
_Ugghh!_ Self-cringing at the memories, self-sabotaging with these
rewinds. Getting lost in your mirage; a thirst that never quite learned
its lesson. Back then, I parked at the corner of love — these days, my
heart’s engine won’t even start. My drive stays parked in the garage.
We once kissed without question, and now I question every last kiss.
When they say I still love you, I deny it like an alibi that no longer fits.
But the truth is: half this story belongs to me, though I wrote every
chapter like a reader discovering my own heartbreak, turning pages,
rereading scenes I swore I’d forgotten, still hoping the ending changes
somehow. We had our teasers, those sweet previews of our forever.
But our forever got cancelled mid-season, and I’m stuck watching
reruns of us, in the quiet glow of what could’ve been.
Now your reflection lingers in the glass of every unfinished thought,
I try to wipe it clean, but ghosts don’t leave fingerprints — but their
fingers brush over your skin in these dreams.
You and I were once a plot that burned too bright, two names inked
in passion’s draft, now crossed out and fading. And so, we’ve met our
conclusion; lovers turned legends in a ghost story that still tells itself
at night.
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