Snapshots

There is a ghost that slips beside my shadow,

kissing heels like the leaves stirring on the trees

I found your sock in my bottom drawer-

I’ve counted at least seven now,

these traces of the space you once took up.

I don’t want to remember the butterflies as haunting,

but as expanding-

whatever had happened

is over two years now.

Occasionally the tremors will start again.

A phantom’s grip

trapping me somewhere between grief and anger-

this endless longing

for a hello.

I can only see the foggy snapshots,

lips in which I tried to speak

but got lost in which freckle was supposed to be home.

I promise you,

we were fleeting-

the encounters like loneliness

where we were both

staring in different directions

yet trying to speak the same language.

I think it took me too long,

to realize I can be happy without you.