Ghosting

The report flashes on, then off.

A man just... gone.

Walked out, keys on the table,

a half-eaten sandwich.

No note, no struggle,

just a smooth erasure.

And I get it.

This heavy presence,

this skin that feels too tight,

the constant hum of expectation.

To be a ghost, but alive.

To step through a wall

into another life,

no goodbyes, no explanations,

just the faint impression

where you used to be.

The blurred camera still

of him at the station,

shoulders slumped,

walking toward nowhere,

looks like freedom.