Ghost Limbs

The coffee tastes like ash today,
Or maybe it's just the memory
Of how you used to make it,
Strong enough to wake the dead,
You'd joke, then kiss my forehead.
Now it's just weak, lukewarm,
And I burn my tongue on the silence.

The house is too quiet,
Even with the radio on.
Every song reminds me of something,
A road trip, a late-night dance,
A shared joke whispered in the dark.
Each note a shard of glass,
Cutting deeper than the last.

I walk through rooms
Haunted by your absence,
See your shadow in the doorway,
Hear your laugh in the wind.
These are the ghost limbs,
The phantom aches
Of a love that's lost its body.

People say time heals,
A soothing balm,
A gentle cure.
But time just stretches,
Extends the emptiness,
Makes it a permanent fixture.

I try to remember your face,
The exact curve of your smile,
The way your eyes crinkled
When you were really laughing.
But the details fade,
Like a photograph left in the sun,
Leaving only a blurred impression.

I go to the park
Where we used to feed the ducks,
Watch children playing,
Their laughter echoing in the air.
I see families together,
And I feel a pang of envy,
A sharp, sudden stab of grief.

They say life goes on,
And I know it does,
But it feels like a betrayal,
To laugh, to love,
To find joy in anything.
How can I move forward
When a part of me is still stuck,
Frozen in that moment of goodbye?

But then, sometimes,
In the quiet moments,
When the sun sets just right,
Or a familiar scent drifts by,
I feel your presence,
A gentle warmth,
A soft hand on my back.

And I know you're not really gone,
Not completely.
You're in the memories,
The songs, the stories,
The ghost limbs that remind me
Of a love that will never truly die.
I learn to live with them, these absences,
accept the phantom weight of your hand in mine,
they're not just pain anymore, but a part of me,
a reminder of the beautiful, broken thing we built,
and maybe, just maybe, that's enough.