You left.
And the silence you left behind
became my classroom.

I sat in the wreckage,
pen in hand,
writing you out of my system
one aching line at a time.

Every poem was a lesson.
Not about you—
but about me.
How I break,
how I bend,
how I bleed ink
when I can’t cry.

They call it heartbreak.
I call it a syllabus.
Each verse a bruise,
each stanza a scar
stitched into wisdom.

You thought you were leaving.
But you stayed
in metaphors and metaphysics.
In the rhythm of my regret.

And now strangers read your shadow
on my page,
and feel less alone.
Funny, isn’t it?

You became my greatest teacher
by being the wound I had to write through.
So thank you.
For walking away.

I graduated with every goodbye

05.06.2025