The Ghost in the Hallway
When you leave your heart in someone else's hands,
you’ll find yourself begging to be the third wheel
to the love you once owned.
You’ll sit on the cold curb outside their window,
watching the shadows of a duet you once danced,
now moving to a song you can no longer hear.
You become the ghost in the hallway of your own life,
pressing your ear to the wood grain,
listening for the laughter that used to have your name in it.
But it’s just a murmur now, a language you’ve forgotten,
spoken between strangers who wear your old faces.
And the worst part isn't the silence.
It's the sound of them living—
the clink of glasses for a toast you weren't invited to,
the front door closing softly at a decent hour,
the gentle hum of a home that has finally learned
how to be warm without setting itself on fire for you.
You’ll find yourself collecting echoes,
keeping a key that fits no lock,
checking a phone that glows only with the cold light of the moon.
You’ll beg to be the third wheel,
because at least a third wheel is still in the cart.
At least it gets to go along for the ride,
even if it just spins uselessly in the mud,
watching the two strong ones up front
pull all the love forward, away from you.
F