Revenant

I hope I haunt you —
bone-deep,
like an ache you pretend you don’t feel.

I hope I drift through the corridors of your nights,
curling beneath your ribs —
uninvited,
unforgiven.

I want every sunrise to taste like the memory
you tried to bury alive.

May your days shiver
with the echo of my name —
the name you swallowed
when you fled skyward,
as if escape was holy,
as if I was something
you could outrun.

Rethink me.
Reopen me.
Re-bleed every careless decision,
every moment you decided
I wasn’t worthy of hesitation.

Maybe I was the part of you
you feared the most —
the mirror,
the shadow,
the twin flame,
the truth you refused
to believe in.

And here I remain,
a fool dressed in bruises,
believing love might resurrect
in a heart that never stopped running.

So your pictures sleep
in a velvet-black album
called Memory.
And even when I hide it,
I worship it still,
the way a wound worships
what created it.

And even if I burn our words,
the ghosts remain,
pressing fingerprints
against the inside of my skull,
dragging your name
like rusted chains
across my mind.

But one night,
when silence crawls beside you,
and every room tastes like something missing,
you will search the dark
for what you abandoned.

You will look for me
in the shadows of every woman
who cannot hold
what you dropped.

You will taste me
in the absence,
and choke on the emptiness
you mistook
for freedom.

And maybe then
you will understand —

I never needed to haunt you.

You damned yourself
the moment
you walked away.