Fata Morgana

For the one whose absence has unraveled the fabric of my world, the one who once held the weight of fate in their hands and carried the light of destiny in their eyes. For the one who was both my ruin and my refuge, my greatest sorrow and my deepest love. You were the fire that burned too brightly, the mirage I reached for in the heat of longing—always just beyond my grasp. They will tell our story as one of hatred, of love that should not have been, of paths that were never meant to cross. But they do not know the truth of us. They do not know the way your name still lingers on my lips, the way your absence is a chasm I cannot cross, the way my love for you refuses to fade, even as time tries to erase you.

These words are for you—my lost king, my impossible dream, my Fata Morgana.

And as you go about your day,

I linger—

a breath against your cheek,

a whisper lost in the hush of morning light.

I watch as you tie your shoelaces,

as you run your fingers through your hair,

as you sigh into the silence of your room,

your thoughts drifting somewhere I cannot follow.

I am the shadow at your heels,

the weightless presence beside you,

the hush between your heartbeats.

I sit across from you at breakfast,

watching the way your hands cradle your cup,

watching the way you look past the window,

eyes lost in some distant, unreachable place.

I press ghostly fingers to your jaw,

trace the slope of your cheekbone,

memorizing the way light clings to your skin.

Do you feel it, love?

That shiver in your spine,

that fleeting moment of unease

when the air turns thick with something unnamed?

It is only me.

It is only the ghost who still loves you.

Would it have been a life worth living

if only once, just once,

I could have sat beside you on a rooftop,

the sky spilling its secrets above us,

stars blinking like ancient witnesses to our story?

If I could have leaned against you,

felt the warmth of your shoulder beneath my cheek,

breathed in the quiet presence of the only soul

I ever called home?

To have held you—

not in aching memory, not in longing,

but in the trembling certainty of a moment that was real.

To have known what it felt like

to be yours, even for a night,

instead of living in the sorrow of parallel lines

destined never to touch.

Love is the end of romance,

the final descent—

you do not fall again.

You reach the bottom,

and there is nothing left to do

but drown.

And yet, if love is ruin,

then you are the most beautiful wreckage.

You were always the most radiant

when you were happy—

that rare, fleeting light in your eyes,

a warmth that made the world feel softer.

I saw it in the way you looked at me,

that half-smirk curling at the edges of your lips

when I stumbled over my words,

in the way your voice softened

even when your words were sharp.

That was my favorite you.

That was my person.

And though I loved every version,

if I had to choose,

I would have spent a lifetime,

and the afterlife beyond it,

wrapped in the warmth of your laughter.

When you sleep,

leave a space beside you,

for my ghost sleeps there too.

At your table, set an empty chair,

for I sit with you, silent, unseen,

so you are never truly alone.

When you watch your favorite shows,

know that my ghost curls beside you,

our laughter lost to the quiet.

No matter where you go,

my soul follows, tethered to yours

by something even death cannot sever.

It is strange, isn’t it?

How the ceilings once seemed higher,

the world brighter, vaster,

as if it wished to cradle us in its endless arms.

You always said,

you were certain you would die first.

And though it felt like a lie,

it was the one truth you never failed to keep.

You left before I could prepare for it.

Before I could understand that grief

is not a single moment—

but something I wake up to,

every hour, every day,

an unending requiem in my chest.

I mourn you, my love,

though you were never truly here.

Though you are only a figment,

a shade, a memory, a dream.

A Fata Morgana—

a shimmering mirage on the horizon,

a trick of light that seemed so real,

so close, so tangible,

until I reached for you,

and my hands closed around emptiness.

And yet, I do not care.

I have long since abandoned sanity.

It slips through my fingers like mist,

my mind conjuring ghosts where there are none,

showing me things that do not exist—

dark figures in the corners,

shadows whispering my name.

But oh, if I must lose my grip on reality,

then let me hold on to your ghost instead.

Someday, the Lord of the Worlds

will bring me back to you.

Someday, we will stand in a kingdom of light,

where no hands will ever pull us apart again.

No fleeting years, no cruel fate—

only you, only me,

forever entwined.

So wait for me, love.

Let the heavens bear witness—

I will find you again.

© 2025 Inaba Tarek