This is the last time I write your name
with anything other than silence.
The last time I let memory
dress up as love
and climb back into my chest.

I gave you my teens
fifteen to Twenty—
years I can’t get back,
but years I no longer want.

You taught me how to ache,
how to beg without speaking,
how to love someone
who never chose me fully.
And in return,
I taught myself how to survive.

I held the door open
through every lie,
every “it didn’t mean anything,”
every look you gave
that wasn’t mine.

But now I see
you were a lesson,
not a lifetime.

You're a name with dust on it now,
a voice I don't chase in dreams.
You're not her anymore,
and I'm not him.

You chose your path.
You built your life.
And I'm finally walking out of the past
without waiting for you to follow.

So this is goodbye
not loud, not cruel,
just final.

No more poems.
No more “what ifs.”
Just peace
where your name used to live.