If my writing ever feels like poetry,
it’s because his absence still lingers
leaving behind beauty
in the places he once belonged.

Of all the souls I’ve ever known,
only you could wear the name you—
in the way my heart remembers,
in the way it still aches to.

His presence was enough
to soften even the hardest days.
The way he looked at me —
it made things feel okay,
even when they weren’t.

I loved him more than anything,
with a love I didn’t even know I had.
And I never thought
I’d miss him this deeply,
this constantly,
this much.

But he wouldn’t know.

He wouldn’t know there were cracks.
He wouldn’t know his actions hurt me.
To him,
it probably felt normal.
Casual.
Safe.
I loved him —
more than anyone should ever love
someone who couldn’t stay.

And I never thought
I’d miss him like this —
in silence,
in memories,
in everything he never even knew he gave me.

Maybe he did love me,
in the quiet ways I couldn’t see.
Not in words,
not in grand gestures —
but in the space where he let me be.

Maybe he didn’t know how to hold it,
like it was something too delicate
for hands that weren’t ready yet.

Maybe it was fear.
Or timing.
Or ego.
Or just the weight of feelings
he didn’t know what to do with.

And maybe that’s why it slipped —
not because it wasn’t real,
but because we weren’t ready
to carry something that honest.

So yes,
maybe he loved me.
But love alone
wasn’t enough.