Flicker Fade

Flicker Fade

Grief Speaks

I held your coat

like it could still warm me.

Your scent lived

in the lining.

A ghost stitched into cotton.

They said time heals.

But time only teaches me

how to walk with a limp.

I never stop hurting—

I just learn how to keep walking.

⸻

The coffee still brews

at 8:03.

You always took it black,

I pour two mugs

out of habit,

then stare at the second

like a prayer

I’ll never say out loud.

⸻

Your chair creaks,

even when empty.

Funny how silence

can remember sound.

Funny how memories

can scream

in a whisper.

⸻

The house is cleaner now—

not because I’ve moved on,

but because

dust never settles

when grief won’t let you sit still.

⸻

I still talk to you

on Tuesdays.

That was your night to cook,

remember?

I burn things now.

Not food—

but bridges, and time,

and pages I never meant to write.

⸻

They sent flowers

when you left.

Now I grow weeds

on your grave,

because nothing beautiful

blooms

where you used to laugh.

⸻

Grief isn’t loud.

It’s the drawer you avoid,

the song you skip,

the sweater

you can’t throw away.

⸻

I dreamed of you

last night.

You weren’t older,

just softer.

Your hands weren’t worn

from work

but from holding

my sadness.

⸻

In the dream,

you never left.

We just forgot

to say goodbye.

⸻

People call it closure.

What a strange word.

As if love

is a door

that can be locked.

As if a heart

isn’t made of broken

windows

and open skies.

⸻

I whispered your name

to the wind once.

It didn’t echo.

But it carried.

It always carries.

⸻

Do you remember

the first time

we danced?

Your feet moved

like truth—

awkward,

but honest.

⸻

Now, I dance alone

in the hallway.

And the floor remembers

your rhythm.

The creaks are music

when it’s late

and I pretend

the world hasn’t changed.

⸻

I visited your mother.

She pretends

I’m strong.

She tells me stories

about your childhood—

the way you used to run barefoot

into rivers.

Now I drown

in the stillness.

⸻

Some nights,

the moon feels closer

than people.

I talk to it.

It listens better

than most.

⸻

I wrote you a letter.

I never sent it.

Where would it go?

To the stars?

To the roots of the tree

we carved our names into?

⸻

It said:

“I miss you

in the kind of way

that doesn’t have words.

So I use too many.”

⸻

Is that love?

Saying the same thing

in different ways

just to feel like

it matters?

⸻

You mattered.

Still do.

Even if you’re

just

a flicker

in my dark room.

⸻

They ask if I’ve healed.

No.

But I’ve stopped bleeding

onto people

who didn’t cause

my wounds.

⸻

Grief isn’t linear.

It’s a circle

that spirals

like smoke—

soft,

rising,

and disappearing

before you can hold it.

⸻

But today,

I opened the drawer.

I played the song.

I touched the sweater

and didn’t cry.

Not because I don’t miss you.

But because I finally let you live

in my joy

as well as my sorrow.

⸻

I think that’s what healing is:

Not forgetting.

Not replacing.

But remembering

with less ache

and more awe.

⸻

You were light.

You were noise.

You were

messy

and real

and mine.

⸻

And though the flame has gone,

the warmth remains.

And the shadows dance

to your memory.

⸻

Some say light fades fast,

but yours lingers

like the last breath of sunset—

soft,

refusing to disappear,

clinging to clouds,

finding new ways

to stay.

____

Flicker…

Fade…

But never gone.