There was a time
I couldn't go a week without seeing you—
your absence, once unthinkable,
now stretches past a month.
Still alive.
Barely,
but still.
Is this what they call ageing wisely?
Learning to breathe
through the hollow?
To walk with the ache
like an old friend who won’t leave?
Or is this nirvana—
not peace, but numbness,
a silence that hums
just loud enough to keep me from screaming?
Maybe I’m just zombied—
heart slow,
steps steady,
eyes dry
from forgetting how to cry.
But I’m still here.
Not whole.
Not healed.
But here.
