There is an eerie silence in waiting—
a hollow ache where time unravels,
a chair left empty,
a breath caught between the ribs
when a shadow
or a song
reminds me of you.

We were not ready—
two trembling hands
unable to hold without breaking.
Perhaps in another life
we will be braver.

But here,
the silence screams louder than words.
The phone glows blank—
a cruel rejection without your voice.
I push it away,
as though distance could sever the pulse
that binds me still to you.

I do not miss you—
not in the way the world defines missing.
I do not yearn for love—
not in the way stories paint it sweet.
Yet somewhere,
a buried vein of me
still bleeds your name.

In the uneasy hush of maybe,
I linger here—
in the half-lit corridor
where absence hums like a haunting.

And nothing haunts me more
than the ghost
of what we could have been.

I am the draft in the hallway,
the door that never shuts quite right.
You step inside,
but the warmth slips away—
I cannot hold it.

I paint the walls in vibrant hues,
yet when I turn,
the colors are already fading,
peeling into cracks
I can never seal.

I fill the rooms with furniture,
trying to make this place ours,
but I drape them in white sheets,
leaving them to gather dust.

You open the windows wide,
and I pull the curtains closed.
You knock at the door,
and I cannot always let you in.

And sometimes I fear
I’ve trapped us in this hollow place,
when you deserve a home
and not these half-lived walls
between here and nowhere.

I wonder if one day
you’ll walk these empty halls
and decide not to return
because I never learned
how to make a house a home.