She Sits With His Ghost

She Sits With His Ghost

she sits with his ghost in the quiet room

the chair still warm where he once sat

her hands cradle nothing yet everything

the air thick with words they never said

the clock moves slow, its ticking soft

like the memory of his laugh

she reaches for him in the corner of her eye

he is there, not there,

fading into shadows and sighs

the walls hum with his absence

the floor remembers the weight of his steps

windows whisper of mornings he will never see

she breathes him in,

her chest tight with the ache of him

she lets him go,

again and again

but some nights

he refuses to leave

he curls around her shoulders,

slides into the space beside her,

turns the silence into a presence that hurts,

her fingers trace the shape of memories

the curve of his laugh, the tilt of his head

the smell of him lingers in corners

in the folds of sheets that still carry warmth

and in her chest, a hollow pulse

that is both grief and longing

she talks to him softly

tells him about her day,

about the little victories he will never see

he listens,

always listens,

sometimes she feels the brush of his smile

against her heart

a cruel comfort

she cannot surrender

she sits with his ghost

and in the stillness

her tears fall quietly

her thoughts chase shadows

and the silence answers

with the echo of him