I think I killed her

I think of you sometimes—

No, actually quite often nowadays.

the one I lost in an ordinary way.

.

You didn't leave all at once,

not with a sudden, clean ending,

but the way a river slowly erodes stones

older than time itself.

.

Or did I kill you with my own hands?

.

You were easy in your body,

soaring against the breeze

in your shiny ballet shoes,

pink dress clinging to your shape.

.

You laughed with your mouth open,

red lipstick,

head tipped back,

as if nothing could reach you there.

.

I try to remember

what it felt like

to move through a room

without measuring the distance to every exit.

.

Now there is a pause—

practiced hesitation before I speak,

before I trust any moment

or reach my hands.

.

Most people never noticed.

But I feel it

like missing a step in the dark.

.

Sometimes you return

in flashes—

in the way I start to say something freely,

or the way my shoulders forget

to cling to my ears.

.

And then it closes again—

drawn shut,

like a door that never learned

how to close with a soft click.

.

I don’t know when it happened.

There’s no single day

I can point to and say:

here—this is where she ended.

.

Only a series of small adjustments.

Light dimming.

A kind of carefulness

leaving bite marks

on my skin.

.

I look for you

in old photos and memories.

I try to imitate your ways—

wearing your old mornings,

twirling my wrist the way you used to—

but even then

you feel distant.

.

Are you still there somewhere?

.

Like a language

I once spoke fluently,

that now stalls in my mouth

before it reaches my teeth.

.

I wonder if you'd recognize me now,

or if you would hesitate

in the doorway,

sensing something wrong

before you step inside.

.

Still—

there are moments

when I catch you

in the edges of myself.

.

Or is it the kaleidoscope fooling me?

.

Laugh that escapes too quickly.

Softness I didn’t mean to show.

Warmth that lingers

longer than I'd like.

.

Proof, maybe,

that you aren't gone—

only out of reach.

.

Waiting

for something I don’t yet know

how to give back.

.

Until then,

I carry your absence

like a second shadow—

not always visible,

but always there,

escaping me like a name,

but reminding me

who I used to be.

It seems like I can't be gone for long. I'm knackered each day from work, but my brain is so free that ideas are flooding me like rivers after snow melts. So I couldn't stop thinking about this elegy until it took a final shape.

I think I'm a maniac... but aren't we all? 🙂

Thank you for reading! ❤️