I sit at the summit where silence begins,
on the edge of a whisper the forest sends in
the hush of green breath cradling my frame,
as if the Earth knows me by name.

Above, the sky yawns wide with grace,
a cathedral of blue where I lose my face
no more the boy who hides his ache,
just a soul the breeze dares not break.

Below me, roots entwine like arms
gentle with my weight, immune to harm.
They don’t ask why I can’t stay still,
why rest feels like a swallow of pills.

Because motion motion is mercy to me.
In steps and sprints, I am finally free.
Each forward breath, a sacred escape
from thoughts that linger in shadows’ shape.

But in the stillness, in this quiet wood,
grief presses its face to my pulse and blood.
Memories ungrieved, like ghosts unmet,
pull up chairs in my chest and do not forget.

Stillness does not ask if I am ready
it enters like dusk, quiet and steady.
It holds me hostage in fields of thought,
where every loss I’ve buried is caught.

There once was a day when we both wore stripes
Distinct lines that undeniably connected us to each other.
Mine had already shifted to black.
Yours were still a light gray –
Soft and subtle.

Now I watch you stand on your own.
Head held high with understated confidence.
Be it sincere or feigned,
doesn't matter.
You're clad in plaid –
Infused with the stripes and lines embracing you all around as contributing designers silently admire in awe.

The black tee underneath —
the closest visible cloth to your heart —
pulls it all together.
You keep it concealed and dear,
Yet show enough to share.
Constant reminder.
We all know it's the reason we're here.

There will come a day
When your whole ensemble is painted
With every hue and shape imaginable.
The influences of past, present, and future
All melded into one stunning garment -
The monarch knows no such splendor.

Soon enough, the black tee will be cast to the side and long forgotten -
Inevitably replaced with an everlasting warm embrace.

Never again will I hear you say,
"I hate change."

Like a tattoo
in the apple of my eye,
their memory is etched
deep into my heart.
When I open my eyes,
I see their story—
how they entered my world,
how their presence
made my heart dance.
My smile stretched wide,
echoing the joy
that bloomed in my chest.

And then—
it hits me.
They’re gone.

Maybe in their memory,
I’m no more than a footprint
at the edge of the ocean,
erased
by the current
of newer tides.

But why?
I whisper to myself,
cradling the ache
of what never became.
Was any of it real?
Or was it only me—
lonely,
seeing love
in everything that breathed?

My heart bleeds...
but let it.
Maybe when it’s dry,
the hurting will stop.
Then again,
perhaps my memory
will fade too—
like a shadow
sinking with the sun.

Maybe we aren’t meant
to hold too tightly
to the ones we meet
in this brief life...

Still—
I miss them.

By Setty Leon

How do you forgive a ghost?

They speak no words.
They never say sorry.
They can never look you in the eye. 
They never stay long enough to watch how much it hurts.

You disappeared from my life.
Without fixing the chaos you caused.

I write letters I’ll never say.
Say goodbyes no one will ever hear.
Cry tears no one will ever wipe away.

You’re a ghost, but your fingerprints will never leave my skin.
You slammed the door shut, but your name still haunts the room.

How do you forgive someone that was never there?

You vanished before I learned to scream.
Now I only whisper.
Whispering “I forgive you”
Whispering broken promises, shattering before they were ever made.

You were supposed to stay.
You etched promises into my skin then peeled them off when my skin became too hard.
Like a coward.
Like a ghost.
I didn’t get a goodbye.
I didn’t get an explanation.
All I got was a lie.
Perfectly crafted by you.

I trusted you.
“She said she would come back.”
“She told me that I was the only thing that mattered.”
The vicious thoughts echoed in my head, swirling around like the wind in a storm.

I scream into empty spaces, hoping it’ll give me closure.
I cry in lone rooms, hoping someone will comfort me.

How do you forgive someone that never existed?

I searched for you everywhere.
But you're gone.
You left as soon as the opportunity arose.
I know you’ll never come back.

Maybe one day I’ll forget who you were.
But right now, I grieve you like a ghost who never died.

I mourn the person I once knew.
I mourn the memories we shared.
I mourn my love for you.

Because at one point, you were all that mattered.
Until you tore yourself from me.

The silence you left still screams at me.
Filling the air with words you never said.

I rehearsed every word I would say to you.
Every scream.
Every cry.
Every conversation.
I practiced every day.
And yet, they never entered the lonely atmosphere.

You took pieces of me I never knew.
I know that I’ll never get them back.
I search for the missing puzzle pieces in other people.
But they never seem to fit the hole in my heart.
In my soul.
In my identity.

Instead, I replaced them with hope.
Hatred.
Resentment.
Because I gave up on waiting for you.

Maybe you weren’t the ghost.
Maybe I am.
Maybe that’s why no one ever seems to notice.

I hate that no one else sees you.
I hate how you only appear in the mirror.
I hate how you look like me.
I hate how, in the end, it’s just me looking back. 

I wonder if ghosts can forgive too.
Do you miss me?
Do you even still care?
Or am I the one that’s haunting the past?
Am I the one who vanished years ago?
Or maybe, just maybe, am I still holding on to the little hope I have left?
Hoping you’ll come back?

Maybe I don’t forgive you.
Maybe forgiveness isn’t something for the dead.

I keep watering a dead grave, hoping something will grow.
Nothing ever does.
And still, I keep trying.
I keep trying, day and night.
Weeks on end.

Because deep down,
I know that if I stop,
Someone else will water the grave.
And something will grow.

Maybe flowers will bloom.
Maybe weeds will sprout.
It could be something wild, untamed.
Something exciting.
Something that grows without needing to be loved.

But it won’t be from me.
It wasn’t my love that helped the grave grow.
It wasn’t mine.
And that kills me.

I wonder to myself.
Why won’t the grave give me something exciting?
Why won’t it grow beautiful plants for me?

Why do all my efforts of trying to make something memorable always go unnoticed?

Maybe I’m not watering a grave anymore.
Maybe I’m burying myself.
And maybe I won’t ever get out.

I know it’s time to let go.
But I can’t.

So instead,
I wait everyday.
Hoping.
Believing something will grow.

I wish you would’ve noticed.
The way I flinched at the sight of her
The way I laughed at things, even if they weren’t funny.
How I stopped calling you “daddy” 
Stopped leaving my room.
Stopped giving you hugs.

I wish you would’ve noticed.
All the bruises.
All the fear.
All the crying.

I wore them like perfume.
And still, you never smelled it. 

The scent was strong, filled with suffering and pain. 
It followed me everywhere. 

But you never recognized the scent of heartache.
Of betrayal.

And, eventually, I stopped crying altogether.
Because I knew tears wouldn’t make you notice anyway. 

You were supposed to be my dad.
I trusted you.
I loved you.
And you never noticed.

And even when you did,
you left. 
On your own terms.

And I was just strung along,
because I didn’t have a choice.

You moved on.
A new house.
A new girlfriend.
A new life.

But you never thought to apologize.
You never once asked what I wanted.
What I went through.
What went on behind closed doors.

I was expected to just…
forget.
But I never did.
And I don’t think I ever will.

Still,
you never noticed.
Or maybe you did.
Maybe you just didn’t care

I wanted an explanation.
I wanted to grieve.
Not for the people I left behind.
But for the person I once was.

I wanted to mourn for the version of me who trusted you.
The one who thought you would protect me.

Because you were my dad.

You were supposed to be my role model.
The one who was supposed to tell me that it’s okay.
To defend me. 
To tell me I’m not dramatic.
That it’s okay to feel this way.

Now, you just yell at me.
Argue.
Get mad because I isolate myself.

“Why are you so lazy?”
Your words chipping away at me.
Just how hers did.

Have you ever thought
I’m not lazy?
That, instead, I’m trying to cope?
Trying to live?
Trying to put on a happy face?

It’s ironic.

The person I thought once loved me, now treats me as if I’m a burden.

I never did get that apology.
And maybe I never will.

It takes one look into your eyes,
and I can tell you're not alright.
The words you don't say aloud
lay heavy on your chest at night.
Every time you cry
I wish I was allowed
to give you a reason why,
a will to live, a will to fight.
I want you to be alright.

It took one look into your eyes
to know you would rise
high into the sky
after you said your last goodbye.

If you must be gone
Then come to me
In almosts
Almost seen
Almost heard
Almost real

Enough
To make me hope
Bt never
Enough to stay.

pain’s funny.
laughs a humorless laugh, entering through the doorway
without a knock, without ringing the bell—
a familiar visitor in the hotel of myself.

it has learned my name,
learned where it ought to reside.
easy for it to slip in, even undisguised.

i welcome it, however.
often, i bring it over to a pedestal:
period cramps causing knots in my stomach,
getting waxed after a month,
or even falling over and knocking my head against a cupboard.
familiar. honest. raw. unfiltered.

it sits behind my ribcage, a permanent guest.
some days, in my head.
often, in the form of a heavy numb in my chest.

why is it there—
what form, what holiday brought it this time?
the questions remain unanswered.

sometimes it carries a reason.
other times, it’s just to remind me of old memories—
like applying my favourite perfume.

i could create a list,
but it’s hard to remember
when it’s visiting my central library
of all that i carry.

i can’t remember how it began.
like an old friend,
one night i met it in disguise.

thought i could trust.
i let myself flicker.
it changed my defaults.
and i found some plain, old comfort.

perhaps the wrong kind.
perhaps the wrong thing to do—
chasing after something that hurts
or brings it to visit me the same way it used to.

now, however, it resides,
living right behind my eyes.

sometimes, if i look too hard,
i can almost imagine its presence:
dark.
clouding.
a kind of grey.
ready to hold my hand.

having grown up—
a monster turned old friend,
almost a lover.

i wear it like a second skin.
and on days i can’t even drink,
it slips its hand in my own,
brings me up, pushes me to smile,
whispers, you have to pretend.

and i do.
i do.
and i keep doing so.

support of one kind,
accepting me with my own mind.

some days, it feels like metamorphosis almost—
a change of forms.
on some days, as a memory.
other times, as a memento.
like dowry.

never concluding.
doesn’t even let me stay in delusions.

creates imagery so beautiful,
i’m yet to believe it isn’t just me—
dignified, personified as the midnight hour.

i’m no sun, or the moon.
maybe i could be a star?