No warnings.
Just the smell of rain
on a night too dry to mourn,
their footsteps falling like old lies
you stopped believing in.
They sit where they used to,
silent.
Their faces aren’t faces anymore,
just holes where memories leak.
"Do you remember me?"
No.
Yes.
I don’t know anymore.
Their hands are the kind
that shatter glass,
but they only reach for the shards.
Their eyes—empty—
drag something sharp
down the back of your throat.
You try to ask why,
but the words
are too heavy to climb out.
They leave without leaving,
their shadows stitched
into the air you breathe.
And you sit there,
raw,
trying to remember
if they were real,
or just the ghosts
you built for company.
REMI.
About the Creator
remi
I write of broken things—family, minds, and the silence between. My poems bleed emotion, my stories twist the psyche. If you seek the quiet horrors, the unspoken grief, you'll find it here.
Comments (1)
Your poem is heartbreaking, very well written 🧡