there's hope in goodbyes
as they say, a chapter ends —
a new one begins.

but i've come today with a different tale —
take it as a story,
a broken poem,
or an unsent mail.

got a couple good phrases,
jumbled up —
only i know the feeling.
can't seem to sense entirely
their origin,
and so i'll try to pen them down,
hopefully bring them a meaning.

no, i ain't broken-hearted,
and no, i ain't going through the same period —
but this comes from the perspective of all those.

let me specify —
a character from the movie i recently watched,
a person on the roadside i walked upon,
a stray cat who waited —
since forever, it seemed —
for her babies to talk,
and millions of those
who waited for something
that wasn't there at all.

a closure.
an answer.
a little bit of understanding.

but here i am,
left to question it all —
especially your disappearance.

those unanswered texts,
the quiet ache,
the agony of play pretend.
ghosting, the new age calls it —
was that even an ending?

there's a bittersweet melancholy,
hoping for something that's barely there,
yearning with the i'm doomed realizations,
and the gentleness with which grief
seems to give me a hug —
it is rare.

i'd wished it could be like
waiting for letters in a war —
knowing they would meet the soldiers
even in their fall,
knowing there was someone writing,
waiting upon them.

i've never been waited for,
held,
promised —
been just a lost cause.

the world resonates with such:
echoes of conversations,
words left unspoken,
unseen messages
pretending to be left unread.

people fading from each other's lives
like mist in the mornings,
fungi growing on breads.

i've talked to silence,
left by my own.
quite a few said goodbye,
most left me forlorn.

i stayed —
same places,
old memories,
holding onto things
that didn't plan on returning.

the destinations became ghosts of the past —
yet i kept writing to the same addresses.

a few didn't even leave —
just faded
into sweet little nothings.

hope, hope,
oh this dear solitude —
hope remained despite the static.

i'm stitching this up
with the remnants of what i once was.
this ain't no monologue,
written in the melancholy of not chosen —
left for yet another job.

an irony,
a metaphor,
no reasons — just because.

i intended to keep it
as a piece
that reminded me of being haunted —
with the memories,
and the facts,
and the presence of a human
that held me to the edge.

and yet,
i find no anger,
no resentment,
no ill will —
no praying of curses to befall and end them.

there's only love,
perhaps longing —
belief that if it existed,
it had the right to be termed
as ended.

only if there was a full stop —
just like at the end of phrases,
sentences,
and even chapters —
a single dot.

it could have helped me move on.

but no —
i'm left,
standing in the middle
after being promised to be met halfway.

never intended to be here —
i'd said so in the first place.

one-sided letter,
bonding,
or heartache.

there's acceptance in solitude.
i'll wear the letters of goodbye,
despite knowing
you never said it.

please don't return
only to tell me —
despite no closure —
it was the silence
that aged.