you’re far enough to feel imaginary—
but close enough to haunt me.
a face in passing,
a voice I shouldn’t miss,
but do.

I don’t know you.
not really.
not the way I’d need to,
to justify
the way you live in me lately.

you say something small
and it echoes—
louder than things that should matter.
like you’re threading warmth
into rooms I sealed shut.

and I hate it.
I hate the way you ruin my quiet.
the way I start to imagine
what it’d be like
to not be this person
with barbed wire for a ribcage.

you didn’t ask to hold any part of me.
but somehow, you are.
and I don’t know
if I want to reach for you—
or run.

maybe I made it all up—
maybe this is just projection
dressed up like connection.
but even the doubt
can’t un-feel
what I feel.

so I sit here,
half-soft,
half-ash,
trying not to write you into poems.

but you show up anyway.
uninvited.
unavoidable.
unreal.
and still too much.