U in Us

I still recognize your outline in the room,

but the light inside it moved.

I wake to your shoulder—warm, familiar weather,

yet the storm we were won’t gather.

Your body’s here, but you’re miles away,

like two constellations misreading the same sky.

I keep digging for the you I knew—

my hands come up full of you, untrue.

You’re a ghost in your own skin,

a house with lights that won’t let me in.

I swear I feel you, but you’re not here—

fading out, my love, I fear.

You’re a ghost—softly wearing your grin,

and I’m holding on while you slip within…

I reach and meet the absence first—

a smile with its teeth rehearsed.

We speak in sentences that don’t arrive,

like letters returned, “no longer inside.”

We’re two at a table set for a crowd,

and the quiet keeps winning, loud.

I keep digging for the you I knew—

now I’m learning how ghosts feel too.

You’re a ghost in your own skin,

a house with lights that won’t let me in.

I swear I feel you, but you’re not here—

fading out, my love, I fear.

You’re a ghost—softly wearing your grin,

and I’m holding on while you slip within…

Your eyes are open, somewhere else,

like you got traded for yourself.

We’re saying words like harmless prayers,

while something answers from the stairs.

I call you back, I call you back—

but it’s like you were turned and pawned…

the you in us is gone.

You’re a ghost in your own skin,

a house with lights that won’t let me in.

I swear I feel you, but you’re not here—

fading out, my love, I fear.

You’re a ghost—softly wearing your grin,

and I’m holding on while you slip within…

someone’s wearing you like wind.

Ghost in your own skin…

the room stays—

you don’t.