I remember you.
Not loud—never loud—just soft.
Like the way the sun kisses the curtains before it disappears.
Like breath on glass.
Like a name I no longer speak but never stopped hearing.

They call it golden hour—I call it your hour.
That soft, cruel moment where time slows down and every shadow in my room becomes a ghost of us.
You, laughing against a sunset that only ever belonged to you.
Me, watchin’ like a fool who thought forever came cheap.

I’ve tried,
God knows I’ve tried.
Tried to close the windows.
Tried to shut the curtains.
Tried to drown the light in silence.
But grief is stubborn—it drips through the cracks like liquid memory.
And every time I say I’ve moved on,
you visit again.
Wearing that sheepish smile.
Carrying the ache I buried under my ribs.

I don’t hate you.
And maybe that’s the tragedy.
Hate would’ve been easier—clean.
But love?
Love lingers.
It hangs in the blue hour like a song only I remember how to sing.

And so I sit here,
bathed in a light that feels like you,
writing to a ghost with your heartbeat,
wondering if somewhere—
you still remember too.
Even just once.
Even if it hurts.
Even if it’s just when the light turns gold.