You live in the corner of my vision
where dust motes float
when a window cracks open
and light pretends to matter.

You used to stand in the center
a whole constellation breathing loud
close enough for heat
close enough for heartbeat
close enough for the soft collapse
between want and trust.

Then grief took you
like a slow shutter closing.
Not a goodbye
not even a warning
just the quiet dimming
of a room I thought was ours.

Now you pass through my days
like a nearly forgotten note
a page half ripped from a book
a streetlamp flickering in daylight
refusing to choose
between on and gone.

I see you
at the edges
never head on.
I catch the shadow
not the face
the echo
not the voice.

You hover
like an unfinished sentence
I keep trying to read
without turning the page.

I tell myself
this is what distance does
it builds museums out of people
and makes me tour the exhibits
in silence.

You are still here
my peripheral reminds me
still here
like a star that died
long before its light reached me
still bright
still beautiful
still lying
in the way only light can lie.

And I keep walking
pretending I do not tilt my head
pretending I do not search for you
pretending I do not feel
the soft pull of mixed signals
the ghost rope between us.

You remain
barely visible
rarely reachable
a presence without presence
a held breath
I never learned to release.

In the center
I stand alone.
But in the margins
you glow
faint
fading
and somehow
still mine
in that place
just out of reach
where love goes
when it cannot say goodbye.