you walked away untouched,
brushed the dust from your sleeves,
like we were nothing more
than a house you once lived in,
a place you left without looking back.

but i am still here,
standing in the wreckage of us,
barefoot on shattered glass,
hands sifting through the debris,
searching for something
that proves we were real.

was it always this easy for you?
to unlove, to forget,
to let me become a story
you tell without feeling?
or did you just run fast enough
to leave the weight behind?

i wonder if i was ever more
than just another room you passed through.
because here i am,
still trying to rebuild myself,
while you’ve already found a new home.