*I relive it every year. Not as trauma, Or pain, But as the unending silence that won’t go away— As numbness disguised as bliss. In the empty space on the bed, Every time I open your room And you’re not there. It’s that quiet ache that haunts me, How easily I smile despite everything. And it makes me wonder If I still grieve. But I know I do. I know this because every night I go to bed wishing I’d see you in my dreams. Because I turn on every light In the middle of the night, Hoping to catch a glimpse Of your shadow— Or, as they say, A ghost. And in this, I know that I grieve. Not through tears Or sadness, But through the knowing That you haunt me— Blissfully. And that, my dear, Is surreal.*