The Cracking
A tremor first, too faint to see,
a quiet shift in you and me.
A laugh that lands a little wrong,
a pause that lingers far too long.
The heart hears what we fear to start—
the gentle breaking of a part.
The Shattering
Then truth arrives on trembling breath,
a soft goodbye that feels like death.
Two voices quake, two futures blur;
the world tilts wildly as we stir.
No storm, no scream—just spoken pain
that splits our single life in twain.
The Echoing
The silence fills the swollen air,
your ghost sits in your empty chair.
The nights grow tall, the hours slow,
I trace the places you would go.
Every echo, sharp and deep,
reminds me love is hard to keep.
The Drowning
Grief pours like rain without release,
a tide that steals my fragile peace.
I sift through moments, torn and raw,
find every flaw I never saw.
The pillow soaks with wordless cries—
a storm behind unblinking eyes.
The Clearing
But mornings break with gentler light,
a fragile hope begins its flight.
My chest lifts up, no longer caged,
the war inside me less enraged.
I rise again, though not yet whole—
a spark returns within my soul.
The Remembering Without Bleeding
Your name drifts in like autumn air,
no longer sharp, no longer spare.
I smile at things that once brought ache,
the map of us no longer breaks.
It isn’t gone—it’s just set free,
a softer-held geography.
The Becoming
And then one day, without a cue,
I wake and feel restored, renewed.
The past a book I’ve gently closed,
its chapters lived, its lessons posed.
For though we fell, I’ve risen too—
becoming more than “me and you.”
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 7:12 PM UTC
The Cracking
A tremor first, too faint to see,
a quiet shift in you and me.
A laugh that lands a little wrong,
a pause that lingers far too long.
The heart hears what we fear to start—
the gentle breaking of a part.
The Shattering
Then truth arrives on trembling breath,
a soft goodbye that feels like death.
Two voices quake, two futures blur;
the world tilts wildly as we stir.
No storm, no scream—just spoken pain
that splits our single life in twain.
The Echoing
The silence fills the swollen air,
your ghost sits in your empty chair.
The nights grow tall, the hours slow,
I trace the places you would go.
Every echo, sharp and deep,
reminds me love is hard to keep.
The Drowning
Grief pours like rain without release,
a tide that steals my fragile peace.
I sift through moments, torn and raw,
find every flaw I never saw.
The pillow soaks with wordless cries—
a storm behind unblinking eyes.
The Clearing
But mornings break with gentler light,
a fragile hope begins its flight.
My chest lifts up, no longer caged,
the war inside me less enraged.
I rise again, though not yet whole—
a spark returns within my soul.
The Remembering Without Bleeding
Your name drifts in like autumn air,
no longer sharp, no longer spare.
I smile at things that once brought ache,
the map of us no longer breaks.
It isn’t gone—it’s just set free,
a softer-held geography.
The Becoming
And then one day, without a cue,
I wake and feel restored, renewed.
The past a book I’ve gently closed,
its chapters lived, its lessons posed.
For though we fell, I’ve risen too—
becoming more than “me and you.”
