You left
but forgot to log out of my grief.
Now your ghost plays sad playlists
on my Bluetooth speaker
at 3:17 a.m. sharp.
The neighbors think I’m haunted.
I think I am too.
Your toothbrush still lives here
like it pays rent
in memories.
I tried deleting your number.
My phone refused.
Even technology
doesn’t believe in moving on.
I text you once a week
just to make sure I still don’t exist.
The check marks never turn blue.
But that silence?
Oh, that’s the loudest part of the room.