The Art of Disappearing

One moment I am here—

breath fogging glass,

fingerprints on doorknobs,

shadow trailing behind me

like a faithful dog.

The next, I am

the pause between heartbeats,

the space where a word

was about to land,

the indent in the pillow

still warm but empty.

No fanfare, no flash—

just the soft pop

of a soap bubble,

the quiet click

of a light switching off

in an abandoned room.

My thoughts scatter

like dandelion seeds,

each memory a small ghost

drifting toward

some other sky.

The world continues

its busy hum,

coffee still brewing,

clocks still ticking,

as if I were never

more than a brief

interruption

in its endless

conversation

with itself.

Even my absence

is temporary—

just another kind

of presence,

waiting to unfold

in someone else's

dream.