I loved you like you were the last soft thing
this world had left to offer.
Not because I ran out of hope,
but because nothing after you
ever felt like truth.

We never needed to say much.
Some bonds are built in silence—
the kind that doesn’t demand to be seen,
only understood.

You didn’t save me.
You didn’t even try.
You just stayed,
long enough for me to feel
what it was like to be seen
without asking.

And when it was good,
it was light spilling through trees—
unexpected, quiet, holy.

Then something changed.
Maybe time,
maybe distance,
maybe things we were too proud to name.

You left like a tide—
slow, steady,
inevitable.
And I let you.

Not because I stopped caring,
but because I cared too much
to hold on tighter than you wanted.

Now, sometimes,
I go where we once were,
not to rewind—just to remember
that I once lived inside a moment
that gentle.

And though my hands still move,
though the pages still fill,
I haven’t opened that part of me again.
I haven’t drawn another face.

Because you were the last time I let go.
And some feelings
are too full
to follow.