The Hours That Haunt Me

Time has a way of keeping ghosts.
It hides them in the slow turning of clocks,
in the hollow space between one heartbeat
and the next.

Your voice still lives in echoes here
caught in the corners of quiet rooms,
repeating words you no longer mean
like a memory that forgot how to die.

I walk beside your shadow now
more often than I ever walked beside you.
It stretches across the walls at night,
thin and distant,
like something trying to remember its shape.

Love should have filled this place.
Instead it left an emptiness
so vast that even time gets lost inside it,
minutes wandering like lonely footsteps
down corridors that never end.

And sometimes, in the darkest hours,
I swear the silence breathes your name back to me,
soft and distant,
just another echo
in a house that used to be a heart.