The inbox gleams, a cold comfort.
I saw your last email days ago.
Each subject line unread, a tiny withdrawal.
The distance between us grows.
My finger hovers,
a bird afraid to land.
The silence stretches,
a new kind of goodbye.

---

This space you ask for,
it feels like an old echo.
I remember this quiet unfolding,
the gentle pull away.
A familiar chill settles.
Is this the prelude
to another ending
I already know?

---

I scroll through our old threads,
each attachment a thought of you.
The easy replies, the shared links,
now distant whispers.
My mind catalogs dates and times,
trying to pinpoint
where the shift began,
the subtle drift apart.

---

Perhaps I’ve built a cage
around a fragile hope.
Each time, I draft a message,
believing in a different path.
And each time, your responses dwindle,
leaving behind
the remnants of a trust
I struggle to rebuild.

---

The memories are sharp,
an archived message from long ago.
That first hesitant greeting,
the promise in your words.
Did I misunderstand
the fragile nature
of your affection,
or just my own capacity for pain?

---

And so, I wait,
in this familiar ache.
The unread count thick with unspoken words,
the space between us widening.
This quiet breaking,
a slow splintering,
leaving me
to mend myself once more.