Another night, another drink.
Not too much—just enough.
Enough to ease the tightness
when I think of your hands on my arm.

Sober, it’s too much.
My chest burns,
tears press forward,
my breath turns on me.

I try to ground myself—
TV flicker,
phone glow,
messy bed,
tight socks,
empty bottle.

Five things I can smell—
but I stop.
The bottle stares back.
Still empty.

I head downstairs,
open the fridge,
grab a few more.
Not to get drunk—
just to keep the sting away.

I say I’m healing.
Say therapy’s helped.
But I don’t believe I have a problem.
My bottles are quiet enough to believe me.

They pile beside me,
the only ones
who know the truth.

Focused breath steadies the storm in my chest.
Over and over, I rehearse what I’d say if you answered.
Remnants of your voice echo in the silence.
Gravity pulls at my hand as I reach for the phone again.
In stillness, I ask myself—what do I need: closure or connection?
Voiceless vibrations stir the table—false hope in digital form.
Even knowing it’s not you, I glance, conditioned by memory.
Not yet free, I carry the weight of what was left unsaid.
Each attempt to release you tightens the tether between us.
Some wounds disguise themselves as loyalty.
Slowly, though, I learn that healing does not wait for an apology.

Today, I let you go—
not because it’s easy,
but because I can’t live
in the shadows of almost
and what-if anymore.

I was your spare time,
never your choice.
I carried love like a burden
you never asked for.

But this time,
I choose me.

Let them watch—
I will not shrink to stay wanted.
I will not ache to feel enough.

Because I am.
And I will be more than enough
for someone who sees me clearly.

This is the ending.
But it’s also the return—
to myself.

The sun leaks in through glass and dust,
8 a.m., warm, golden, just—
enough to stir, but not to move.
My chest still bears a weight I prove
can pin me down through morning light,
then lull me back to lazy night.

I blink—and thunder shakes the frame,
rain drums the glass, it calls my name.
I reach again for glowing blue—
7 p.m. It can’t be true.

A whole day lost in linen seams,
swallowed by half-conscious dreams.
I whisper what I always say:
Tomorrow, I will not decay.

I wish I’d known that last goodbye
would echo like a final sigh.
Your eyes were quiet, voice unsure—
a silence I chose to ignore.

You didn’t flinch, you didn’t cry,
just turned and left beneath that sky.
If I had known, I’d have begged you to stay,
to steal a few more words that day.

No calls, no texts, not even views,
just empty screens and phantom news.
I hold my phone, then drop it fast—
what’s hope but shadows from the past?

They say move on, that time will heal,
but grief’s not something you can feel
and fix like glass that’s cracked in two.
I’d just have held on tighter—
if only I knew.

That goodbye was forever.

I held the weight while others wept,
watched love choose someone else.
Buried dreams beside the dead—
and no one even noticed.

This is the one, I whisper low,
Ink on the page with a steady glow.
My pulse is sure, my spirit proud,
I post it up, above the crowd.
Done.

Two days pass in silent scroll,
A single like—a softened toll.
My thoughts return, both sharp and terse:
Maybe this was my best… or worst.

Again I write, the spark feels dim,
The words fall out, a clumsy hymn.
I roll my eyes, ashamed to send
A piece I’d never recommend.
Done.

Two days pass—my phone alights,
The piece is trending, shared in flights.
The one I thought was shallow, weak,
Spoke truths another couldn’t speak.

The weight is held in different ways,
Some see the sun, some feel the haze.
What’s “best” is tied to where we are,
Some feel the storm, some chase the star.

So now I write with open hands,
No more demands or strict commands.
Each piece, a gift I can’t control,
May miss one heart and reach a soul.

And when I post, I don’t deride—
The worth’s not always mine to decide.
For passion’s voice, though sometimes low,
Still finds a place it’s meant to go.