Still in the air

You were here —
then thinner than a thought,
a shape the light forgot,
a sentence breaking off before it starts.

Your shadow learned to drift,
to lift, to blur, to split,
I reach for what you meant,
not what you did.

I don’t ask you to remain,
I don’t pull you back again,
every step you take away
repeats your name.

Not goodbye, not a lie,
just a distance multiplying.
You don’t vanish — you unwind,
you leave time behind.

Like smoke in the light —
visible, untouchable,
close enough to hurt,
too soft to hold.

Like breath in the night,
warm for a second,
gone before I know
what I was owed.

You move through me slow,
then you go —
not erased, just thinned,
like a promise breathing in.

I tried to keep the sound you made,
the way you stayed but never stayed,
the way your silence filled the room
and left no trace.

I don’t chase, I don’t accuse,
every answer learns to lose.
What we were was almost true —
almost you.

You don’t fall, you don’t remain,
you just change without a name.
No collision, no repair,
still — you’re there.

Smoke in the light,
curling, untying,
learning the shape
of goodbye.

Smoke in my lungs,
truth on my tongue,
real for a breath,
then undone.

Don’t tell me to save you,
don’t tell me to stay —
some things only exist
while they fade.

Still in the air…
still aware…
still not gone…
just not there.

Smoke in the light…
soft as a scar…
you were real —
for as long as you are.