misty cypress
Some nights,
the air feels heavier than before.
Like the world knows
I have no one left to talk to.
The walls don’t echo anymore.
They just watch—
cold, patient—
like they’re waiting for me
to admit I don’t belong here.
Mom’s face comes to me in flashes—
her hand brushing my hair back,
her voice half-tired, half-warm,
asking if I’ve eaten.
I say yes, even now,
though there’s nothing on the plate.
Her absence hums in my bones.
It’s not grief anymore—
it’s quieter, duller,
like breathing through dust.
I dream of her sometimes.
She’s in the kitchen,
and I’m walking in,
and she looks up like she’s seen a ghost.
Then I wake up.
And maybe she has.
My friends—
God, I thought friendship meant forever.
But forever fades fast.
Their laughter lives in old videos now,
their faces lit by memories I can’t replay right.
Sometimes I scroll just to hear them laugh again,
and for a second,
it feels like I’m still there—
before the silence grew teeth.
Home is a word I can’t say out loud anymore.
It feels like a promise I broke.
It used to be warmth—
steam from the kitchen,
the smell of rain in the courtyard,
a bed that always forgave me for coming late.
Now it’s just a ghost that calls me
from a distance I can’t close.
I keep things tidy here—
as if Mom will walk in and see.
I talk to the empty room sometimes.
It doesn’t answer,
but it listens better than most people do.
Sometimes I wonder—
if they think of me at all.
If Mom looks at my photo
and sighs quietly before bed.
If my friends ever say my name
and pause for a moment longer than needed.
Maybe not.
Maybe I’ve already faded from their days—
like a song that once meant something,
but no one remembers the lyrics to.
I tell myself I’ll go back.
But deep down, I know—
even if I do,
the house will stare,
the air will be colder,
and no one will say,
“You’re home.”
Because maybe home isn’t there anymore.
Maybe it died
the day I left,
and took everything warm with it.
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