SHRINE OF YOU
All I think about is you—
like a spell carved into my skin,
a fevered script I can’t scrub off.
Every thought I touch
bleeds your name.
Songs have turned into traps.
The radio plays,
and I’m dragged into your orbit again,
throat tight,
heart breaking open like glass.
My coffee is a ritual now,
bitter and black,
like the nights without you.
I still reach across the table,
half-expecting your fingers to find mine—
they never do.
I miss your smile—
the dangerous kind
that could disarm my rage,
the one that made me want to kneel
and confess everything.
I miss your random yapping—
your galaxies of nonsense,
your holy storms of chatter
that drowned my darkness
and left me gasping for air.
Now the silence is so loud
it feels like it’s screaming.
All I think about is you.
Even when I laugh,
I taste salt.
Even when I sleep,
I wake up clawing at empty sheets,
dreaming of the weight of you
in the hollow of my arms.
I tell people I’m fine.
I lie so well I almost believe it.
But the truth?
I’ve built a shrine of you inside my ribs.
Every prayer, every breath
is a confession—
I want you,
I want you still,
even as it ruins me.
All I think about is you.
If you walked back into this room
you wouldn’t find the man you left—
you’d find the ruins,
you’d find the ash,
you’d find me kneeling in the dark
still holding your ghost
like a lover
I can’t bury.

