I swear—
this is the last time I say your name out loud,
like something I still carry,
like something I’m allowed.
I fold you into silence,
tuck you out of sight,
teach my hands to lose you
in the middle of the night.
It almost feels like healing—
clean, controlled, and slow.
But breaking isn’t linear.
You taught me that, I know.
Because you don’t leave gently—
you echo, then you stay.
In dreams that feel too real
and mornings I can’t shake away.
Your laugh—
it lingers in my chest,
like a song that won’t let go,
like a ghost that will not rest.
And I hate it—
how I love you even still,
not the way I used to,
but a quiet, stubborn will.
Not with hope or future plans,
not with “us” inside my view—
just a distant kind of aching,
like a sky that once was blue.
I relapse into the memories,
the “almost,” “nearly,” “could”—
the version of forever
that we never understood.
I go back just to prove
I can leave it all behind,
close the door without you
and reclaim a piece of mind.
And I do—
every time, I do,
though it hurts a little less
each time I make it through.
The world keeps turning forward,
even when I’m standing still,
and slowly I start living
like I’ve bent but not my will.
Then one morning, soft and strange,
something shifts inside my chest—
your name no longer echoes
as a constant, aching guest.
I breathe without remembering,
without reaching for the past,
and the peace feels unfamiliar—
like it might actually last.
And somewhere in that quiet,
in a way I can’t explain,
I find someone who holds me
without reopening the pain.
Not a shadow, not a substitute,
not a means to let you go—
just a different kind of warmth,
something steady, something slow.
And I realize I can love them
without losing what was true,
because some part of me, somewhere,
will always carry you.
But it’s softer now, and distant,
like a story I outgrew—
not erased, but not defining
everything I try to do.
So no—
I didn’t stop loving you.
I just learned what I deserve,
and somehow made it through.
And now my heart beats forward,
not in halves, but something whole—
not a victory, just freedom,
just a quieter kind of soul.
And still—
I go.