The silence where You should be

There is a kind of loneliness
that lives inside the presence
of someone who once knew you,
or said they did.

A kind of grief that wears
no black veil,
no funeral clothes—
just sits beside you
as if it belongs.

You give and give,
a quiet offering
laid at the altar
of something you thought was sacred,
built on your own bones.

You clap.
You cheer.
You show up.
You stay.

But they don't ask.
Don't look.
Don't see.

And the worst part isn't
the emptiness—
it's the knowing
they wouldn't notice
if you were gone from it.

You become a witness
to your own erasure.
And somehow
you feel guilty
for minding.

You tell yourself
they're busy.
They're hurting.
They're trying.
You tell yourself
this is love.

But love
does not
look away.

Love
does not
let you disappear.