Alive?

You are not gone— not really. You walk in sunlight, while I drown in the shadow you left. Your name still breathes in every room, a whisper I can’t unhear. The cruelest ghosts are the ones with beating hearts. You live, but you are no longer here. Every memory aches like broken glass, each one cutting deeper as I reach for the warmth that used to know my touch. I see you in dreams, in strangers, in moments that almost feel familiar. And then I wake— and remember you’re still alive, just not mine. I wish you’d died. Not in body, but in the way grief allows you to rest. Because this is torture— mourning a soul that still breathes, watching a ghost wear the face of someone I once loved.