Ghosting

There’s a particular cruelty in quiet  

when it’s chosen like a fortress

a retreat disguised as cowardice,  

a shield instead of a bridge.  

We are so good at vanishing,  

becoming ghosts in our own lives.  

It’s almost poetic, if it weren’t  

so achingly human.    

I want to ask if you know  

the weight silence leaves behind,  

how it collects in the corners  

of someone else’s chest.  

Once, words were seeds we planted—  

sprouting leaves of understanding.  

But now, untended, they wither;  

the roots curdle into resentment.  

There is no closure in disappearance,  

no surrender, just a lingering ache.  

And yes, the heart beats quietly,  

but only because it remembers.