a poem about breaking habits
©ESR 2026

Tonight,
I reached for a ghost.

Not a person.

Not a voice.

Not even a conversation.

Just a habit
wearing the shape of one.

My hand found the phone
before the thought arrived.

A movement rehearsed
so many times
it no longer asked permission.

Check the weather.

Check the time.

Check anything.

The thumb already knew another destination.

And there—
for the briefest second—

was the expectation.

A small door opening.

A small reward waiting.

A familiar path through familiar woods.

Except the path ended.

The gate was gone.

The clearing empty.

And all that remained
was the strange realization
that I had walked there
without meaning to.

That is the part no one tells you.

Not the leaving.

The reaching.

The reflex that survives the decision.

The body arriving
after the heart has already moved on.

So tonight
I sit with the absence.

Not mourning.

Not longing.

Simply noticing.

A groove worn into stone
by water that no longer flows.

The river has changed course.

The channel remains.

For now.

Tomorrow,
perhaps,
the grass will begin to grow there.

Next week,
wildflowers.

One day,
I may forget there was ever a path at all.

But tonight

I reach for a ghost

and learn
that letting go
is not a single act.

It is a thousand small moments
of remembering
where you meant to go.