You circle my life like a moth
that swore it hated the flame
but can’t stop burning its wings.
You left—
yet your shadow still stretches across my doorstep,
picking through the windows,
counting the chairs at my table,
trying to guess the names of my guests.
This isn’t your stage anymore.
I’m not your story to edit,
and my life isn’t here for your
half-curious, half-vengeful
little drop-ins.
If you want drama,
make your own.
If you want answers,
ask the mirror.
Because every time you steal a glance,
every time you push a ripple into my day,
you only prove
you never really let me go.
But I have.