You pull me close
like you’re afraid
I might disappear.
Your voice soft,
your hands warm,
your words full of promises
that make my chest feel
like something hopeful
might finally live there.
And just when I begin
to believe you
you let go.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Just enough
to remind me
that closeness with you
is always temporary.
So I stumble backward
into distance
I never asked for,
wondering which version of you
is the real one
the one who reaches
or the one who retreats.
And then the cycle begins again.
You return
with familiar gravity.
Suddenly you miss me.
Suddenly you need me.
Suddenly I’m important again
in the quiet spaces
between your doubts.
And every time
I let myself step closer
like maybe this time
the ground beneath us
won’t shift.
But it always does.
Love with you
is not a steady thing.
It is a rope
constantly yanked
between two hands
that can’t decide
whether they want to hold it
or drop it entirely.
And the cruelest part
is not the distance.
It’s the hope
you keep giving me
right before you take it back.
Because I am not just
standing here anymore.
I am bracing.
Leaning.
Straining against a tension
that never relaxes.
My arms ache
from holding onto someone
who keeps stepping away.
And you call this
confusion.
But from where I’m standing
it feels a lot like
exhaustion.
Mar 28
Mar 28, 2026 at 9:15 AM UTC
You pull me close
like you’re afraid
I might disappear.
Your voice soft,
your hands warm,
your words full of promises
that make my chest feel
like something hopeful
might finally live there.
And just when I begin
to believe you
you let go.
Not loudly.
Not cruelly.
Just enough
to remind me
that closeness with you
is always temporary.
So I stumble backward
into distance
I never asked for,
wondering which version of you
is the real one
the one who reaches
or the one who retreats.
And then the cycle begins again.
You return
with familiar gravity.
Suddenly you miss me.
Suddenly you need me.
Suddenly I’m important again
in the quiet spaces
between your doubts.
And every time
I let myself step closer
like maybe this time
the ground beneath us
won’t shift.
But it always does.
Love with you
is not a steady thing.
It is a rope
constantly yanked
between two hands
that can’t decide
whether they want to hold it
or drop it entirely.
And the cruelest part
is not the distance.
It’s the hope
you keep giving me
right before you take it back.
Because I am not just
standing here anymore.
I am bracing.
Leaning.
Straining against a tension
that never relaxes.
My arms ache
from holding onto someone
who keeps stepping away.
And you call this
confusion.
But from where I’m standing
it feels a lot like
exhaustion.