learning how to haunt myself

I loved you the way drought loves rain— desperate, unguarded, believing the sky would keep its promise. You left quietly, like a season changing its mind, and I was still dressed for the weather you swore would stay. Now grief moves in my chest like smoke in a burned house— nothing is on fire anymore, but everything still smells like loss. I carry you in the small violences: the way night stretches too long, the way my hands forget their purpose, the way love doesn’t evacuate when it’s told to. If I sound alive, don’t be fooled. Some goodbyes don’t kill you— they teach you how to haunt yourself.