I wore his vest,
trading stained threads
for something that smelled
just like him.

Bare legs, quiet room—
his eyes found mine,
and I swear,
time leaned in to listen.

"Just forehead kisses,"
I whispered once,
twice—
trying to stay soft
when my heart wasn’t.

But he looked at me
like I was still his,
like the ache between us
wasn’t ready to end.

His hands at my waist,
his breath on my cheek,
the silence hummed,
sweet and weak—

And then,
before goodbye could speak…
I kissed him—
once,
long,
slow,
like we forgot what leaving meant.

You woke,
not knowing your name—
only the weight of breath
and the pull of light.

Before mirrors,
before clocks,
before the word you—
what were you?
And who decided
that was enough?

People like me
don’t speak much—
we read silence
like it’s scripture,
watching the way shadows fall
on people’s faces
when truth gets too loud.

I learned early
that softness
gets mistaken
for weakness,
and honesty
for cruelty.

So I became
a quiet kind of storm—
rage in my ribs,
kindness in my palms,
resentment
sitting neatly behind my teeth.

Some days I’m tired
of pretending I don’t feel it all.
Of swallowing the world
just to keep peace
with people who
would never carry
a piece of me.

But I still stay quiet.
Because people like me
don’t speak much.
We bleed in poems.

I keep asking the stars—
why give me a heart
so fluent in love,
yet no one who understands the language?

I pour oceans into people
who don’t even bring a cup,
craving a reflection
that’s always walking away.

The universe made me
desperate,
tender,
wide open—
then placed me in a world
of half-hearts and dead ends.

I dream of being chosen
the way I choose,
seen the way I stare
into souls
like it’s scripture.

But I’m stuck—
in limerence,
in longing,
in the kind of hope
that keeps whispering
“maybe next time”
until eternity fades
and I’m still waiting
for love
that mirrors mine.

I was so scared of loneliness
that I held on to hands
that never reached for me first.
I kept people like ornaments—
pretty to look at,
but hollow when touched.

I hate how broken they left me,
how I poured myself into them
and they never thought to catch me.
I twisted myself into someone
they could love,
but they never even tried
to understand me.

No reciprocation,
no effort,
just me,
dragging dead weight,
convincing myself that someday,
maybe,
they’d see me the way I saw them.

But love isn’t meant to be begged for.
Understanding isn’t a favor.
I should have known—
that if I had to hold on so tightly,
then maybe they were never mine to keep.

Now I stand alone,
and for the first time,
I realize loneliness isn’t the enemy.
It’s the empty space where I finally
make room for myself.

You ever feel like you’re talking
but no one’s listening?
Like you’re throwing words out
into a sea of silence
and they’re just sinking?

I tried to tell you once,
but you never asked the right question,
never stayed long enough
to catch the part of me
that was unraveling.

So I kept quiet,
held it all in,
but it didn’t disappear,
it just grew louder inside.
Isn’t it funny?
How the things we don’t say
get the loudest.

I could tell you all the things
you’ve never asked me,
but would you want to know?
Would you hear it if I said,
"I’m scared you’ll leave if I speak my truth"?
Or is it easier to stay in the space
where we pretend we’re okay?

I think we both know
the truth is something we avoid—
not because it’s a lie,
but because it’s a weight we’re not ready to carry.
So, we tiptoe around it,
dancing on the edge of the words
we’ll never say.

But one day,
maybe I’ll stop waiting for you to ask,
and I’ll say it all anyway.
And maybe that’s when we’ll finally listen.

The moon has seen everything,
but it never speaks.
It just lingers—
half-lit, half-lost,
dragging tides and secrets in its wake.

I asked it once,
"Did he ever mean it?"
"Will the ache dissolve like salt in water?"
"Why do I still dream in his voice?"
The moon only blinked,
a quiet refusal wrapped in silver.

Nights like this,
I fold myself into the dark,
press my ear against the silence,
listening for answers
that do not come.

Maybe love is just a sky full of questions.
Maybe healing is learning
to stop waiting for the moon to reply.