Ghosts in the Frame

It was over long before we called Time of Death.

The cracks in the foundation were there long before we saw them.

It started small;

shrinking myself for peace,

emptiness for compromise.

Lovers and partners,

becoming housemates—

then coparents.

The house still stands,

but pictures on the walls are ghosts—

our laughter, our memories,

replaying like a looped apology.

Photographs framed in a language we no longer speak.

I rehearse the story for friends—

it was mutual,

we tried—

each word sandpapered smooth,

Polished to perfection,

to hide the grief beneath.

The shattered dreams, a future once burning bright—

extinguished, but not erased.

Nights stretch thin.

Somewhere, a kettle boils for one.

Earl Grey sitting on the bench, 

Cold and forgotten.

Even silence feels crowded

with what-ifs, and almosts.

When the children sleep,

and the loneliness creeps in.

Settling in beside me,

Enveloping me like a lover's arms.

Then, comes the morning

And the ache isn't so loud.

A beam of sunshine on my hand,

and I notice the small, nagging voice

has quieted.

Barely a whisper now.

One day, I meet you as yourself—

not my husband, but my friend.

There’s gratitude, bittersweet;

I see your courage,

the cost, and the freedom,

and I wish you peace.

And an abundance of love.

I walk through these rooms barefoot.

I put the kettle on.

Drink the tea, still hot.

The air is less full of ghosts,

more full of oxygen.

Breathing, and becoming, feels like practice—

awkward, necessary, new.

I hang my own picture on the wall,

just me,

not smiling, not pretending—

just being.

And it is enough.

There was never a perfect family—

just people trying not to break.

Now, I learn to hold my own pieces

without wishing for glue.

The mirror is kind these days.

Not with flattery,

but with truth.

I see someone worth the risk

of loving again—

I see me.