The house doesn’t smell like them anymore
hasn’t for decades
just dust and whatever cheap candle I lit
to pretend otherwise
I walk past their old room
a museum of nothing
stripped bare by time and my own cowardice
donating their clothes felt like betrayal
keeping them felt like a haunting
They died so long ago the calendar’s a liar
flipping years like it’s mocking me
and still I catch myself listening
for a cough, a laugh
something to prove the silence wrong
It’s not grief, not anymore
it’s a splinter lodged too deep to dig out
a dull throb I’ve named after them
I see them in the mirror sometimes
not their faces—those faded like bad Polaroids
but the way my jaw clenches
the way my hands fidget with nothing
They left me their habits
useless heirlooms I can’t sell or burn
like how I hoard receipts
or curse at burnt toast as if it’s personal
Years pile up
a landfill of birthdays they missed
and I wonder if they’d recognize me now
less their kid, more a stranger
with their ghosts stitched into my skin
The world kept spinning
rude as hell
shoving new wars and dumb trends in my face
while their absence sat quiet
a guest who never leaves
I talk to them in traffic jams
muttering at the dashboard
like it’s a Ouija board
asking why they didn’t warn me
life’s just a longer wait to join them
No answers, obviously
they’re too busy being dead
to RSVP to my pity party
Still, I save a seat
just in case
People say time heals
but it’s a shitty contractor
leaves cracks in the foundation
charges you for the privilege
I mourn them in fragments now
a recipe I can’t nail
a sweater I won’t wear
a joke I laugh at alone
They’re not gone, not really
they’re the static on the radio
the shadow that ducks out of sight
I hate them for leaving