He drifts through life
like smoke from an old fire,
never rooted,
never gone.
A collector of hearts,
a thief of warmth,
he wears sincerity
like borrowed silk,
shedding it
once the room grows cold.
He speaks in half-truths
that sound like comfort,
touches with hands
that only take.
Every glance, a transaction.
Every promise, a performance.
He doesn’t build,
he drains.
He doesn’t feel,
he studies emotion
until he learns how to fake it.
He knows how to look wounded,
how to tilt his voice
just enough to earn forgiveness
he never intends to deserve.
He plays the victim so well
you almost forget
who’s bleeding because of him.
He feeds on the soft-hearted,
the ones who still believe
in the good inside everyone.
He takes their belief,
their patience,
their shine,
and leaves them questioning
if it was ever real.
He calls it life.
I call it consumption.
A slow feast of souls
served under the illusion of care.
He will never stay long enough
to see the wreckage,
just long enough to take
what was never his to begin with.
And when he’s gone,
you’ll hear the echo of his name
like the tide pulling away,
quiet, inevitable,
leaving nothing behind
but the hollow shape
of where trust once lived.
Oct 23, 2025
Oct 23, 2025 at 5:33 PM UTC
He drifts through life
like smoke from an old fire,
never rooted,
never gone.
A collector of hearts,
a thief of warmth,
he wears sincerity
like borrowed silk,
shedding it
once the room grows cold.
He speaks in half-truths
that sound like comfort,
touches with hands
that only take.
Every glance, a transaction.
Every promise, a performance.
He doesn’t build,
he drains.
He doesn’t feel,
he studies emotion
until he learns how to fake it.
He knows how to look wounded,
how to tilt his voice
just enough to earn forgiveness
he never intends to deserve.
He plays the victim so well
you almost forget
who’s bleeding because of him.
He feeds on the soft-hearted,
the ones who still believe
in the good inside everyone.
He takes their belief,
their patience,
their shine,
and leaves them questioning
if it was ever real.
He calls it life.
I call it consumption.
A slow feast of souls
served under the illusion of care.
He will never stay long enough
to see the wreckage,
just long enough to take
what was never his to begin with.
And when he’s gone,
you’ll hear the echo of his name
like the tide pulling away,
quiet, inevitable,
leaving nothing behind
but the hollow shape
of where trust once lived.
This one isn’t about an ex, it’s about a friend who turned out to be the real lesson. The kind who’s around when it’s easy, quiet when it’s not. You look back and realize the loyalty was one-sided, the laughs were real, but the intentions weren’t.
No big fight, no dramatic ending, just that quiet shift when you finally see their intentions for what they are. It stings for a minute ... then it’s just clarity.
It still hurts to lose a friend, even if it's one-sided.
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