while chasing your ghost, i became one myself—

translucent as morning fog,

the space between breaths,

or like the clatter of a dead-end street after midnight.

you were always good at hollowing things out:

rooms, promises, the space behind my ribs.

now i practice your art in reverse,

carving myself thin enough to follow.

i grew into the absence you planted,

let it fester, untamed, in the darkness.

until my skin thinned to vapor,

my thoughts akin to broken signals,

and my body collapsed inward,

folding in slow, like burnt edges curling to ash.

it happened somewhere between your last lie

and _the first frost of winter_—

how i began to haunt my own memory,

growing paler with each passing hour.

now i’m weightless, drifting,

a ghost hunting a ghost,

and somehow, it’s fitting—

we’re both just fading, disappearing,

like footprints swallowed by the snow.