Unseen Tomorrow

I walk these halls as I always do,
my shoes clicking softly on the floor.
I hum a tune I’ve always loved,
though no one ever hears me.

I wave at faces that startle,
smile at friends who flinch and turn.
“Why do they look at me like that?”
I ask aloud, and no one answers.

I set the table, light the stove,
wait for meals that never come.
I knock on doors, expecting voices,
but only silence follows my hand.

Sometimes, I catch a glimpse
in mirrors, in windows, in shiny spoons—
a shadow that moves like me,
but does not feel the warmth I feel.

I tell myself, They’re just shy,
or I’ve arrived too early,
never dreaming
that I am the one unseen,
the one who cannot touch,
the one who never left.

And every night I whisper,
“See you tomorrow,”
to friends who cannot hear,
to a world that has long forgotten me.