I tried to wash the scent of you from the pillows,
but the air still carries your name.
Every corner of this house
remembers the way we used to move—
slow steps in the kitchen,
soft laughter in the hallway,
a quiet kind of love that made the walls hum.
I set the table for one now,
but my hands forget,
placing an extra glass,
waiting for a voice that never comes.
I whisper to the silence,
telling it stories of us,
pretending it still listens
the way you used to.
And maybe one day,
the echoes will fade.
Maybe one day,
your ghost will leave the door open
instead of slamming it shut.
But tonight,
you’re still in every room.