You Left, But the Sky Still Looks Like You

You left quietly,
like mist sliding off a morning window—
no slamming doors,
no goodbye loud enough to echo.

But the sky—
it never got the memo.

It still carries your colors at dusk,
soft pinks where your laughter once lived,
deep purples like the bruises of missing you,
and streaks of gold —
that tender way you said my name
when the world felt too sharp.

Rain taps like your fingers used to—
restless and full of rhythm.
Clouds drift in patterns I swore
only your handwriting could draw.
And every time the wind moves through trees,
I hear your half-finished sentences
trying to find a place to land.

You see,
the world forgot you,
but the sky?
The sky is stubborn.

It wears you like memory,
wraps you around each sunrise
as if to say:
Some goodbyes don’t stick.
Some people don’t leave clean.

And maybe
that’s why I look up too much lately.
Because the sky still looks like you—
and I’m still trying
to let you go
without forgetting your light.