Ghosts Don't Pay Rent

Ghostly Resident

Okay, so picture this: Another delightful Friday night, living the dream. (Except for the existential dread, but hey, that's practically furniture at this point.) Me, your average hero and my vacuum cleaner, finally deciding to battle the dust bunnies disguised as hamsters that have taken over my apartment.

Big whoop, adulting at its finest. But hey, who needs Netflix when you find a buried treasure? Not gold, not silver, but ... Traces of you, your hair. Turns out, even the most magical people leave ... evidence.

Apparently, cleaning turned into a full-on ghost hunt, complete with invisible fingerprints under pillows and all that jazz. It's like being on a bad reality show – "Extreme Ghost Hair Hunting."

So, buckle up, because this poem's about to get real deep… about the existential angst of finding rogue strands and the philosophical weight of a lingering ponytail.

---

So there I was, battling dust bunnies and chaos in my little home,

Guess what I found? Traces of you, your hair,

Hiding in every corner, turning cleaning into a ghost hunt.

your invisible fingerprints, under pillows, all around.

You’re gone, or so they say, but your hair tells a different tale.

Each one a whisper of the days you danced through these rooms.

"Don’t miss me too much" you joked as you left.

Miss you? Honey, you are everywhere I look.

Who was she, you might ask? Not just a passing guest,

She was a magician of the everyday, finding magic in every moment,

dancing in rain puddles, sketching dreams in the steam of her morning coffee.

We didn’t just meet; we collided, charmed by the worlds in her eyes,

how she saw the ordinary, found wonder in simplicity.

Now, it's just me, talking to my vacuum cleaner.

Discussing the philosophical weight of your leftover hair.

How can I feel alone when every corner, hums your laughter?

This place, once alive with our shared smiles,

Now echoes with silent dialogues with ghosts.

But let’s not get lost in daydreams. Life isn’t a romcom, you know?

You're gone, carried away by the tides of time.

Distance sucks, tearing us apart, stealing the warmth.

It’s sad, isn’t it? How presence fades into absence,

You were just passing through, it seems,

leaving a trail of hair, like breadcrumbs leading nowhere.

Hansel and Gretel could've found their way home, then lost it all again.

No fairy tale endings here, no candy houses,

just a house haunted by the whispers of what was, and what’s lost.

So, thanks for the memories, or rather, the traces of your visit.

It wasn’t my plan to remember you this way,

But hey, ghosts don’t pay rent, right?

And apparently, neither do you, but in my heart,

you’ll forever live rent-free, even if you're a messy roommate.

Sega