The ghost

There is a ghost in my kitchen and I can’t ask it to go.

I loved him but, angry, chose not to tell him so.

He left and I cried, and hoped he could see

That the thought of life without him was killing me.

He showed no emotion, but it was killing him, too.

His life ended that day; it was only then that I knew.

His grief and mine were two parts to a whole.

Both feeding each other, too afraid to let it show.

Now I can’t face the kitchen and the memory of that day.

Is the ghost his last farewell or the words I didn’t say?