Echoes and other annoyances

Your voice, uninvited, has taken up space,

Like a houseguest I didn’t prepare to embrace.

It’s not what you said—those details blur—

It’s the rhythm, the tone, the way you were.

It lingers, smug, in the back of my mind,

A whisper, a chuckle, not quite kind.

I hear it when I’m quiet, or trying to sleep,

That echo of ours, now running too deep.

We built something rare—or so I thought—

A connection too intricate to be easily caught.

But lately, you’ve stepped back, careful, precise,

As if what we created comes with a price.

I tell myself it’s fine, I’m not the type to cling,

But here I am, dissecting the whole thing.

Am I too much? Too eager, too loud?

Or just not enough to keep you around?

I laugh at myself—it’s all so absurd,

To be haunted like this by a voice, not a word.

I should ignore it, but it’s too damn sharp,

A melody still playing on a muted harp.

So I wait, while pretending not to care,

For your echo to fade, for the silence to wear.

But deep down, I know what I won’t admit—

The echo stays because I let it sit.