There’s a book on the shelf
with your handwriting – leaning
like it’s tired of standing alone.
And your son’s in the hallway,
asking quiet questions
you should be here to answer
with a half-smile or a poem.

I’ve been drinking again,
but just enough to feel you —
like a flicker at the edge of a curtain.
And the night hums low,
like it’s tuning a memory
I’m almost brave enough to hear.

So I play your old songs,
let the ghost notes rise.
Let the truth hurt soft,
let the past sound right.
Yeah, some loves don’t fade;
they just slow their stride.
You’re the quiet in my chest
when the world gets loud at night.

You taught me that sadness
could bloom into something
if you held it long enough to listen.
That a heartbreak’s a compass,
a bruise is a map,
and every loss has a rhythm
you can almost live in.

Your boy has your eyes —
that storm-before-rain look
like he’s seeing the world sideways.
And I swear when he laughs
there’s a softness in the room
I haven’t heard
since you were around.

And I know you couldn’t stay —
the world cuts deep,
and some hearts bruise faster.
But damn it,
you left your light behind
like some broken lantern
still trying to be kind.