Do you remember,
the sixth of December,
when truth bled from your lips,
cutting deeper than any silence could?
After months of chasing shadows,
you whispered love —
only to bury it in the same breath.

I gave you everything,
everything they couldn’t see, couldn’t feel,
couldn’t hold close without trembling.
Yet still, they won —
not because they were better,
but because I am wrong.
Because I am what you fear.

You shouldn’t have asked me
to scale the walls of your heart,
brick by crumbling brick,
only to slam the gates shut,
leaving me outside,
alone with my wounds and the taste of you.

I don’t think I can hate you.
I hate myself instead —
for reaching, for trying,
for drowning in a love
that was never meant to save me.
You gave me hope and took it back,
left me hollow,
a shell filled with echoes of what if.

For a fleeting moment,
you were the light I searched for,
the answer to prayers
whispered to a deaf sky.
But you were never the love of my life.

I taught you how to see the world,
opened your eyes to its colors,
its warmth, its endless possibility.
I was the bridge between your darkness
and the light you never knew.
But in the end,
I became just another shadow.

You are the loss of my life,
when we meet again,
I’ll be the stranger,
and your eyes will mean nothing.

And now, the sixth of December
is etched in my soul —
not as the day I lost you,
but the day I found the truth:
some loves aren’t meant to be held,
only mourned.