Alexa Daskalakis

I’m Not Here

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I’m not here.
And it wouldn’t matter
even if I were.

The rooms learned
how to keep going.
The light switches on
without asking who’s home.

People still talk to me—
in past tense,
in lowered voices,
as if memory were polite.

I don’t correct them.
There’s a peace
in being misremembered.

Everything ends quietly—
not with distance,
but with irrelevance.