Hallucinations

I swore I heard you humming

in the next room—

that soft hum you used to chase

sleep with.

So I left the light off,

followed it barefoot

like a child trailing warmth.

The mirror was fogged,

but I saw you in it—

tilting your head,

smiling like you never left.

I blinked,

and the glass was empty again,

but your scent still clung

to the steam.

You called me last night—

your voice cracking

through the static like

you were trapped

somewhere between

the stars and the ceiling.

I answered.

No one was there.

This morning,

I made two cups of coffee.

Yours got cold

waiting for lips

that didn’t show.

I could’ve sworn

you touched my shoulder

in the kitchen.

It was tender—

like forgiveness.

But when I turned,

only the air moved.

They say grief is cruel,

but it’s not grief

that’s got me unraveling.

It’s the way you

keep almost existing.

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