Ghost man

by MissT

He lived behind smoke
and called it safety.
I reached through it,
cutting my hands
on the edges of his silence.

Every promise was glass —
clear, fragile,
and always just about to break.
Every memory was a ghost
he couldn’t face,
and wouldn’t let go.

I stood in the doorway
between who he was
and who he never became,
watching his life
gather dust like unused potential
on a shelf no one cleaned.

I loved him,
but love doesn’t fix men
who haunt themselves.
And I won’t be
the final woman
he breaks on the way
to never healing.

So I walked —
not shattered,
just done.
And left him there
with his glass,
and his ghosts.