As August bleeds to another September, the ghost of me that loved you still lingers with haunted eyes begging to be whole. Outside echoing halls, I admit, I too miss me that I lost when we turned out to only be unwritten words of a fantasy tucked into the white spaces between the lines and chapters your pen needed for your story. The ghost aching for a #past walks beside me, tracing contours of a path my fingers can't touch. The present I crave isn’t written in the future. But why utter the truths that hurt. Silence smothers life far more efficiently.