undead

I’ve already moved on. And yet, in the quietest hours, when the world folds into itself and the wind carries the ghosts of things I thought I left behind, your memory claws through me. It settles deep, beneath the ribs, into the marrow, as if my bones themselves remember the shape of you. Every laugh, every glance, every half-whispered word becomes fire, frost, and lightning all at once, an orchestra I cannot unhear. But then the present arrives, blunt and indifferent, like a stone pressed against my chest. The echoes that once screamed now fold into silence. The fire cools. The lightning fades. I am untouched. I am empty. The world spins as though you were never here, as though the pain and warmth and obsession were merely illusions etched in sand. I walk in both realities: the one that still burns beneath my skin and the one that hums along without me, indifferent, untouching, unstoppable. And somewhere between the two, I exist: a witness to a love that no longer lives, yet refuses to die entirely.