I've traced your smoke signals through countless midnights, watching them spiral into nothingness like the memories we pretend to forget. Each time you appear in that alley, I materialize too; another phantom drawn to your gentle destruction.
Your cigarette burns like a tiny sun in our private universe. I want to tell you that I've counted every ember, mapped the constellations of ash you leave behind. That I understand the weight of being translucent, of existing between breaths and shadows.
We are twin specters, you and I, haunting the spaces between streetlights and silence. I've learned the language of your exhales, the way you hold darkness in your lungs before releasing it transformed. Sometimes I think we're most alive in these moments of mutual disappearance.
Let me be the ghost that haunts you back. I'll collect your scattered thoughts like cigarette butts, preserve them in the museum of midnight confessions. We can fade together, reform together, two wisps of consciousness dancing through the same abandoned hours.
I've always been here, in the negative spaces of your solitude. Watching you paint the night with smoke, understanding that sometimes being a ghost isn't about what we've lost; it's about what we refuse to let go.
Loading comments...