The shadow of you haunts me;
an itching presence between my shoulders-
that prickling feeling of being watched-
yet also of watching
as I visit the places we went
and those I'd expect to meet you in.
Your generic looks an unwelcome specter
as everyone can shapeshift to become you
from the edges of my periphery.
And still I turn my head,
not wanting it to be you,
but already preparing what I'd say if it were.
Though it never is.
Because you are a ghost in real life now,
barely living, barely being seen.
Believe me, I'd like to forget you,
but instead I'm being haunted.
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