I told you I missed talking to you—
and all you gave me was “ah.”
Just two letters.
That was the last piece of you I ever received.
Not a goodbye, not a pause—just silence dressed up as indifference.

It came after I let myself be seen—
after I admitted my feelings had been bruised,
that something in me had started to grow deeper than I intended.
I knew what I was to you—
something you could hold, but never keep.
Something that could exist in your hands,
but never take up space in your heart.

And still, I hoped
I had become more than something you could set down
without a second thought.

So this is how we end—
back to being strangers.
Pretending we never crossed paths,
never learned the language of each other’s bodies.

I keep trying to say it out loud:
I didn’t fall in love with you.
But that doesn’t mean you didn’t matter.
That doesn’t mean you didn’t leave something behind.
Because you did.

I won’t apologize for the way my heart feels.
I never asked you to apologize
for the way yours doesn’t.

I’ve always believed I could carry
anything life placed in my hands.
I just never imagined
I’d have to carry the weight of getting over you.

You were honest from the start—
you told me there was no space in you for me.
But I have always been someone who feels everything.
And now I’m left suspended
somewhere between heartbreak and the unknown,
where memories of you linger longer than they should.

And maybe that’s the cruelest part—
I call myself a writer,
yet for three years, the words abandoned me.
Then I met you,
and suddenly everything inside me began to speak again.
You made me feel alive
in a way I had forgotten.

But you never meant to be anything more.
You told me that from the beginning.

So now I’m here,
caught between what was
and what never could be,
replaying you in my mind
like a song that won’t end.

And no matter how much I try to reason with it,
no matter how much I tell myself to let go—

my heart refuses to listen.

JMS