Ghost of Me

There’s a photograph buried in a drawer–
A boy who looked like hope, eyes fierce and unaware
Of how quickly fire can die,
How quickly a heart can turn to air.
Now, I am the ghost of that boy–
Not dead, but unrecognizable,
Flickering through rooms I once owned,
A shadow on the glass,
A face in the periphery,
Never quite known.

I see the world through layers–
Thick glass, dull pain,
Everything out of reach,
Every day the same.
I used to burn–anger, lust, ambition–
Now I dissolve into routine,
Losing pieces with every failed decision,
Vanishing in spaces no one’s seen.