He's Gone

I hear the door close slow,

no echo, no sound, just the low glow.

His shoes aren’t by the wall,

his ghost still answers when I call.

(“he’s gone…”)

The air feels heavy where he stood,

empty spaces never looked this good.

I trace the dust, the quiet line,

his voice still lingers — not quite mine.

I thought I’d break, but I just fade,

a shadow of what we made.

He took the noise, left the ache,

I’m too still to even shake.

He’s gone — and the walls don’t breathe,

his ghost hums low beneath my sleeve.

I stand still — I don’t feel wrong,

just quiet, hollow, and almost gone.

(“he’s gone… he’s gone…”)

His cup still sits by the sink,

I stare too long, forget to blink.

Ten years gone — all in one night,

he walked away, took the light.

No words left, no fight to keep,

I watch his memory fall asleep.

He’s free, I guess — and so am I,

so why can’t I say goodbye?

He’s gone — and the walls don’t breathe,

his ghost hums low beneath my sleeve.

I stand still — I don’t feel wrong,

just quiet, hollow, and almost gone.

(“gone… gone… gone…”)

All that noise we called love,

turned to static, turned to dust.

Now it’s me, the dark, the hum,

pretending that I’m finally numb.

He’s gone — no echo, no trace,

his name still stains this place.

I breathe out once, the air feels cold,

He’s gone —

and I feel old.

(“he’s gone…”)