You left not me

You left, not me—

the door still creaks where you stood,

a ghost in the hallway,

breathing out your name like smoke.

I kept the lights on.

I kept the coffee warm.

You walked into the rain

and never looked back—

like I was the one who vanished.

Now the house talks to itself,

echoes your laugh in the walls,

and I sit here,

tracing your shadow on the floor,

wondering if you ever noticed

the quiet you left behind

was louder than anything we said.