I don’t shout anymore.
The sky never answered.
Your leaving was quieter than that –
just absence settling
where certainty used to live.

You don’t visit me in dreams.
You walk beside me while I’m awake,
borrowing strangers’ faces,
lingering in reflections
that vanish when I turn.

I feel you not in memory
but in interruption –
a thought cut short,
a breath that hesitates
for no clear reason.

Some nights when the world feels thinned,
as if you’re just beyond it,
close enough to disturb the air,
not close enough to return.

I don’t chase you.
I don’t call your name.
Still, you follow –
not as love,
but as the shape it left behind.