RODGERS SPEAKS

RODGERS SPEAKS Feb 23

"I"

Dearest gentle reader,

There comes a time when a soul does not shatter all at once but crumbles quietly, piece by piece, until it is nothing more than an echo of what it used to be. And so, I lay before you the remnants of myself, a collection of wounds disguised as a person.

I, with eyes that no longer weep—for grief, when stretched too thin over the years, dries up like a riverbed that has forgotten the taste of rain.

I, with a heart that has long since ceased its reckless beating. Oh, it still moves, in the way that broken things do, but it does not hope, does not yearn—only lingers, an ***** fulfilling its duty, no longer its desire.

I, who breathe not out of longing but out of habit. The air enters, the air leaves, but I cannot recall the last time a breath felt like life rather than obligation.

I, whose skin has been etched with stories I never wished to tell. The marks run deep, invisible to most, yet they whisper their truth in the quiet moments when the world forgets to look away.

I, whose feet have wandered far, carrying me across endless roads in search of peace, only to find it always a step beyond my reach.

And so, dear reader, you may ask—what, then, was the cause of my undoing? But that is a question with no single answer. Did I die when my dreams withered? When my laughter grew hollow? When I first learned the cruel weight of goodbye? Or have I not died at all, but merely become something else—something caught between existing and fading?

Know this—though my time of death cannot be named, it was not today. No, today I still stand, still breathe, still forge onward with quiet defiance. For some of us, survival is not a gift but a choice, made anew with every rising sun.

Yours most wearily,
A heart still beating—if only just.
~Rodgers

.....💔

RODGERS SPEAKS Feb 23

She left

Dearest gentle reader,

It is a truth most cruelly confirmed that hearts, no matter how prepared, can still be broken. I once murmured a forewarning to the heavens, an anxious prophecy spun from the depths of my own apprehension—she would leave, just as all before her had done.

And so, she has.

Oh, how I had readied myself for this very moment, rehearsed its sting, fortified my heart against the inevitable ache. Yet, when the hour came, my defenses proved no match for the quiet devastation of her absence. Love had settled between us, light and effortless, filling the spaces between laughter and silence, binding us in a way only the most tender of affections can.

But love, dear reader, is an art most delicate, and I—a novice in its dialect—failed to speak it fluently. She mistook my quiet for indifference, unaware that my silence was not the absence of feeling but the presence of too much. And so, believing herself unloved, she turned away, leaving me not only with my sorrow but with the bitter knowing that I had been misunderstood.

I had always known she would leave. And yet, against my own wisdom, I dared to hope that, just once, I might be wrong. Alas, hope is a capricious thing, and prayers, it seems, are not always granted favor.

Now, I am left to wonder—what does one do with the weight of an unsaid goodbye? Where, dear reader, does one place a sorrow that refuses to be set down? If ever there is an answer, I suspect it is not one I am ready to hear.

Yours most wistfully,
A heart too heavy with farewells.
~Rodgers

RODGERS SPEAKS Feb 19

And so we let go🥺😞

I’m forgetting us now. Not all at once, just in pieces—
like a song I used to love but can’t hum anymore.
It’s strange, isn’t it? How something so vivid
can fade into the haze,
sitting next to old dances and that awkward gaze
I guess that’s what memory does—tucks it all away
until it feels like someone else’s life,
someone else’s love.

But there’s a heaviness in forgetting you.
It’s not like misplacing your keys;
it’s like walking through a room that used to hold music
and realizing it’s quiet now.
You were the kind of person
I painted a whole future with—
soft strokes of "what ifs" and "somedays."
And now?
Now you’re the kind of person
I don’t even text when something reminds me of you.

Maybe that’s how it goes, though.
We start as lovers, turn into friends,
then somehow slip into strangers
without anyone announcing the end.
It’s bitter, sure,
but there’s sweetness too,
because if forgetting is the cost of loving,
then I’d still pay it every time.

And so we let go.
We pack away the pieces
and shove them into that dimly lit room in our minds,
the one filled with forgotten birthdays
and compliments we never gave back.
It’s not denial; it’s survival.
Because if we carried it all,
we’d never have hands free to hold what comes next.

It did happen.
We did love.
But maybe it’s okay to let it sit in the past now.
Maybe that’s where it belongs.
~Rodgers

Talks about letting go of someone I thought I'd have forever 💔

RODGERS SPEAKS Feb 18

Guarded love

I dare say, I may be unsuited for love—
Or perhaps, merely wary, reluctant to surrender.
For though affection finds me often enough,
I seem unready, unprepared to render.

Love, to me, feels like the trembling line
Of a sketch unfinished, just beyond sight.
It may not be that love has forsaken me—
But rather, I have yet to love myself aright.

I await approval, to hear I’m clever enough to claim brilliance,
Or seasoned enough to weave words into verse.
Waiting, endlessly, for life to begin properly—
Not simply pick up where another left off, rehearsed.

Success? Ah yes, but not mine—
Like a “before” portrait, a means to highlight change.
To others, I appear disheveled, perhaps even misplaced—
A drawer never opened, hidden, deranged.
The house gleams outside, yet chaos lives within.

To think myself unlovable? Foolish—yet, the thought lingers still.
Even if my mind refutes it, my heart surrenders its will.
I feel as though I am but the one before the one,
A spectre haunting with hope, wishing not to repel anyone.

Waiting—ever waiting—for permission to return,
To be told I never needed to leave,
That everything I left behind remains intact—
My pursuits, my dreams, my hobbies to retrieve.

They were never unworthy.
Indeed, they were cherished beyond compare.

I feel like a bookmark, slipped between pages to hold a place—
Never quite the story itself, never granted the space.
Ah, but if time would only pause!
I would kiss each fleeting moment as it passes,
Following every page until at last—
The tale becomes mine, whole and steadfast...
For as love seems to be my jolly...I fancy it not...
At times I think and in a moment of evident foolishness convince myself that love for some reason is a beautiful thing , which in fact it is but not exactly for me....
~Rodgers

......🥺

— The End —