The Hollow Summer

They stayed
long after the fire,
not in body—
but in the momentary stillness between waves,
in the wind-stirred laughter
that only she could hear.

Their footprints remained
when no one else walked the shore.
A towel, sun-bleached,
left to whisper
what a life might have been.

They spoke in riddles
and memories
and names that didn’t feel
like hers anymore.

He reached for her
through time
or guilt
or something more tragic
that could’ve been love,
had they lived
long enough
to learn how to give it
without fear.

But the match was struck.
And the house went down.
And no one ever taught them
how to build things
that last.

So she walks the island
not alone—
never alone—
but with ghosts
that do not fade,
only flicker.
Only follow.
Only mourn
what they
might have
been.