Even the dead tell stories.

Not with mouths,

But with the weight they leave behind.

And the places they should have never touched.

He touched me once—

In a room too quiet,

With hands that shook like leaves,

But landed like stones.

He touched me.

Not with love. Not with care.

With fingers like splinters.

Sharp and soaked in silence.

They buried him in spring.

The flowers had come too soon.

I did not cry.

No one asked me why.

But now, when I sleep,

He sits at the edge of my bed.

Shadow-heavy.

Reeking of dust and iron.

I feel the ghost of his grip.

In the crook of my elbow,

On the nape of my neck.

Like fingerprints pressed

Into wet cement.

They say he’s gone.

That ghosts are not real.

But I’ve learned—

Even the dead do not rest.

Even rot can echo.

Even silence carries scars.