She lingers in my thoughts but lives in my eyes,
and I see her there.
All she’d ever done, for me or anyone.
Her eyes opened mine.
I couldn’t see myself without her.
Envisioning a world she wasn’t in,
was like honing myself into a box I couldn’t fit in.
I stood beneath her silhouette,
following in her footsteps, never my own.
I was a ghost in my own story.
Forever a whisper where she was a scream,
her voice was grumbling thunder,
whilst mine got lost in the rain.
I was trapped in her narrative,
as her words piled up like loose chapters of a story,
waiting to be pieced together.
She watched as I grasped onto those words,
I collected them like scraps of inspiration,
like thoughts I couldn’t come up with on my own.
I was a ghost in my own story,
unseen, unknown.