He is not here, he is dead. Even though his voice is a type of comfort I've never felt with someone, it makes me escape, escape from a reality I was obligated to accept. Listening to him makes everything go away. Maybe just a delusion. I can't understand. I dont think he would've liked if he was still here. A reality that i was promised it would go away that I'll  get "used to" isn’t gone.

The days repeat themselves,
like a record caught in its own groove.
Familiar voices circle me,
their words sharp,
yet weightless in their cruelty.

I move through it quietly,
half-hidden,
a ghost among the living.

In songs left behind by the lost,
I hear an understanding
the living rarely give.
A voice, weary and raw,
spills out like truth too heavy to carry,
yet light enough to reach me.

That absence feels like presence,
a hand on my shoulder
from someone who never knew me,
yet somehow does.

I lean into that shadowed comfort
not forward, not back,
simply here,
waiting for a crack in the glass
that holds me still.