you don’t get to haunt me—too late now.
i learned your shape. i learned your how.
i mistook silence for depth once, sure,
but i don’t reach for ghosts anymore.
three months felt endless at the time.
now it barely earns a footnote line.
the staring, tension, all that weight—
turns out it wasn’t fate, just bait.
i asked. you lied. that’s the whole plot.
no opera. no tragic knot.
just someone hedging, smooth and small,
afraid to risk himself at all.
you liked the edge, not what it meant.
the almost, not the consequence.
you fed on want, then slipped away—
a habit, not a hurricane.
i thought you changed the course of me.
turns out you just delayed the sea.
i kept my depth. i kept my spine.
you were a pause, not the line.
you thrived on wanting not on giving
the chase the thrill, that’s your living
no drama nor heartbreak or a bigger plan
just a boy too scared to be a man
now when i think of you, it’s clean—
no ache, no pull, no in-between.
just clarity where longing stood:
you weren’t that rare.
you weren’t that good.
i don’t miss you. i miss the phase
where i still thought i had to stay.
that girl is gone and honestly?
she wouldn’t even look at me.