She undressed in the mirror.
Only the reflection watched.
I found her candle,
cold and forgotten.
Her hands moved like smoke
understanding how to be skin again.
Not performance. Not pleasure.
Just unlearning the habit of vanishing.
Her shadow held her shape
longer than I did.
She said: “Stay,
but forget.”
Her child slept, somewhere,
dreaming oceans away.
She etched a name in glass steam,
a word that burned too bright to keep,
then let it melt under hot breath.
There was a song
caught in the ceiling,
something we never played
but always meant to.
I kissed her hair while it was still hair
and not a question
left behind on a pillow.
I opened the door,
it sang some other man’s name.
A line drawn, erased. No message left.
The room forgot its language.
My ghost obeyed
and lifted.
