A Ghost I Can Still Touch

We keep calling this an ending, yet somehow I’m still in your bed with your heartbeat trying to hide inside my chest— as if it can borrow mine until it remembers its own rhythm. You say it’s over. You say it has to be. You say you can’t promise tomorrow when you’re still trembling from yesterday. But your arms don’t listen. Your body doesn’t listen. Your loneliness doesn’t listen. And I— God help me— I have never listened either. You leave in absolutes, but return in almosts. Leave in final sentences, but come back in ellipses. Break up with your words, reconcile with your silence. You tell me not to wait, but you look at me like you know I’ll still be here when you’re ready to be found. I don’t blame you. I know you’re empty. I know the world hollowed you out until you started believing you had nothing left to give. But I’ve held your nothing. Held it like scripture, like something sacred, like maybe if I loved it long enough it would turn into something. You say you can’t stay, and for the first time, I believe you. For the first time, I’m convinced— but I’m still here, waiting. So here it is— my confession: I’m crazy in love with a ghost I can still touch. If we ever love again, I’ll be here waiting. And if we never eclipse again— still, I am waiting. Until then, I’ll let the space between us do its terrible, necessary work. I’ll let the silence sculpt us into who we’re supposed to be. Maybe you’ll come back as someone ready. Maybe I’ll grow out of the shape you left me in. Maybe this really is the end, or maybe it’s the first honest pause we’ve ever taken. All I know is: I’m not strong enough to keep us together. So instead, I’m right here— steady, quiet, waiting for you to pull me back in. And I’m still here, in whatever form feels true. Not disappearing. Not chasing. Just breathing. Healing. Never unlearning you. And learning myself. If you ever find your way back— you’ll find me whole.