Flirting with Ghosts

No one stays. But they all linger.

I walk through the world like a flame wrapped in velvet.

People see the glow and assume warmth.
That I must be held. Must be known. Must be wanted.

But no one’s close.
Not really.

I’ve had walls, sure.
Built them brick by heartbreak, sealed them with charm.
But they’re not there anymore.
I’ve taken them down.
Left the drawbridge open. Lit candles in the windows.
Hell, I even played love songs through the cracks.

Still, silence.

The ones who used to know me still talk to the armor.
The new ones?
They see the light in my eyes, the flirt in my laugh,
and assume I’m full —
like I’m someone with too many options to need just one.

But here’s the truth:
If I’m a player, I’m a player without a team.

No one calls.
No one climbs the walls that are no longer there.
No one asks what's underneath the mystique.

I go to bed with no texts.
I wake up with no warmth.
I live in a house of mirrors that reflects everyone but me.

Tonight, Wait by M83 is leaking out my speakers —
slow, soft ache in the corner of the room,
as if the universe is trying to tell me
that absence has a sound.
And it’s beautiful.
And it hurts.

They fall in love with the silhouette.
But no one dares to touch the shadow.

You’ve seen the silhouette. But if you want to touch the shadow—

→ step inside.