Autopsy of a Heart That Loved

You left so quietly the walls still think you're here. Your ghost lingers in cups unwashed, in midnight silence, in the side of the bed I still avoid touching like it’s crime scene tape. I loved you so hard my soul started limping. Do you understand that? I carved homes into my ribs for you, fed you every soft piece of me until I became a skeleton still calling your name with a mouth full of blood. And the cruel part is— you did not even leave like a villain. No shattered glass. No screaming. No thunder. Just the slow realization that I was holding someone already emotionally buried. You kissed me like a goodbye I was too in love to translate. Now I wake up every morning feeling like survival is disrespectful. Because how does the world continue? How dare birds sing when my chest sounds like a church collapsing inward? People say “time heals.” But time has only taught me how to carry pain without making noise. I still reach for my phone to tell you things. Then remember I am speaking to a grave with your name breathing on it. And maybe that’s what heartbreak is— mourning someone who is still alive somewhere else laughing without you. You were not just a person. You were the future I murdered other futures for.