The Ghosts We Wear

Let yourself go, unravel in the dark.
Let your fingers dance in the space I’ve left—
I’ll return, I always return,
to the hollow of us, the ache in my chest.

Here I stand, baring my heart,
confirming, confessing: yes, I loved you.
But god, how I wished
for a hatred so true
it would burn you away,
leave you with nothing to cling to.

Where do you hide, my lovely ghost,
when you slip out the door without sound?
I wander these nights like a stray,
pulling at stars, tracing your shadow
through towns that refuse to hold your name.

There’s nothing left to lose,
nothing to tether my mind—
I’m closer now to where I began:
folding memories into empty clothes,
buttons undone, seams unraveled,
your absence sewn into each thread.

I wish I could burn it all away—
the scent of you, the warmth we shared—
but instead, I wear your silence
like a noose of velvet
tightening around my throat.

Still, I call you—
a whisper in the dark,
a candle burning itself to wax.
Come back—
or let me break beneath the weight
of what remains
when love turns to ash.