Blue Turtle.

Eight weeks have passed.

Not long enough to forget,

too long to pretend it’s new.

I saw your old car today

parked crooked down at the corner shop,

just like they always do,

like they never really care

enough to get any of the vehicles straight until they're in the service bays.

I stopped breathing.

Not dramatically,

just a quiet hitch,

like my body remembered you

before my mind had time to correct it.

What a strange thing,

to react to something that isn’t even yours anymore.

I know it’s not your car.

I know you’re not here.

I know you haven’t been

for eight weeks.

So why did my chest tighten

like you might step out of it?

Keys in hand,

golden eyes smiling,

as if none of it ever happened?

The next day, it was gone.

And I didn’t stop breathing this time.

No hitch,

no sudden stillness.

Just a small collapse inward,

barely noticeable

unless you were looking for it.

Which, apparently, I am.

What an even stranger thing—

to miss the moment that hurt you

simply because it meant

something was still there.

Do I really need more reminders?

Or have I started collecting them,

like proof

that you were real?

Do I crave the hauntings

your ghosts provide—

these fleeting, accidental resurrections

that let me feel you

for half a second longer

than I’m supposed to?

Eight weeks have passed.

And somehow

I’m still learning

how absence

finds new ways

to arrive.