came back.

No warnings.

Just the smell of rain

on a night too dry to mourn,

their footsteps falling like old lies

you stopped believing in.

They sit where they used to,

silent.

Their faces aren’t faces anymore,

just holes where memories leak.

"Do you remember me?"

No.

Yes.

I don’t know anymore.

Their hands are the kind

that shatter glass,

but they only reach for the shards.

Their eyes—empty—

drag something sharp

down the back of your throat.

You try to ask why,

but the words

are too heavy to climb out.

They leave without leaving,

their shadows stitched

into the air you breathe.

And you sit there,

raw,

trying to remember

if they were real,

or just the ghosts

you built for company.

REMI.