The Haunting

You arrive without footsteps,
a quiet corrosion in the rafters of my mind.
Not apparition, not phantom—
but something worse:
the kind of haunting that breathes,
that waits,
that never relinquishes its claim.

You are in the corners where the light falters,
in the black glass of windows after midnight.
Your voice comes thin as static,
threading through silence,
a low hum I cannot extinguish.
Even the walls remember you,
their plaster thick with your fingerprints.

I tell myself you are gone,
but you lean against the marrow of my bones,
pressing until I bruise from within.
You turn sleep into theatre,
pulling the strings of my dreams
until I wake with your shadow
sewn into my skin.

You have made a home of me—
a cathedral of ache where you kneel and rise,
kneel and rise,
relentless in your worship of ruin.
And still,
I carry you—
not because I want to,
but because you have written yourself
into the architecture of my being.

Keep My Words Alive

If this poem has stayed with you, you can help keep my words alive or explore more of my work. Every bit of support helps carry the stories forward.