I miss you in the way that I would miss blood
if my veins ran dry,
whispered conversations with thin air
in the dead of night,
when nobody can see me
when nobody can think that Iām not
getting better,
but is better not forgetting?
a lingering sense of what once was, gone
in a wave of healing
is it not better to believe in ghosts?
an echo of a life I loved more than my own,
than to believe in nothing
