You reached for me
on your way home—
somewhere between obligation
and evening—
and I let myself believe
it meant something more.

I told myself
this is what care looks like
in a busy life—
it doesn’t always say good morning,
it shows up when it can.

So I softened.

And when you asked me something real,
I answered you honestly—
not carefully,
not guarded—
just… honestly.

And I felt you disappear.

Not all at once—
but enough.
Enough to know
I had stepped somewhere
you were never going to follow.

I’m not doing this anymore—
carrying the weight of something
that only exists
when it’s convenient for you.

I hear you.
Loud and clear.

You told me already—
I would want more,
and you would be elusive.

You were right about both.

But if you knew that,
why didn’t you let me go?

Why keep me here—
tied to a thread
you only pull
when desire calls your name?

I am not just
a moment you visit
when you feel alone.

I am not
something you pick up
when the world goes quiet
and put down
when it speaks again.

I tried to let you go.

Even if it was only a week,
I was learning—
slowly, painfully—
how to breathe
without reaching for you.

I wasn’t there, yet, but I was trying. 

And then you came back—
not fully,
never fully—
just enough
to undo the healing.

You don’t even see it.

How I bent—
how I broke—
how I reshaped myself
just to exist
in the small space
you made for me.

It cost you nothing. But it cost me everything.

Because I felt something.

Not just what we did—
not just skin and closeness—
but something deeper,
something that stayed
long after you left.

And I told you.

I told you
I had to get over you.

I said it out loud
and watched it land between us—
hoping, maybe,
you would understand
what that meant.

But you didn’t.

Or maybe you did—
and chose to come back anyway.

And that’s what breaks me.

Not that you don’t want me—
you’ve made that clear.

But that you won’t release me either.

You keep me here—
half-held,
half-known,
half-chosen—
in a space where I am
never enough to stay,
but never free to leave.

And I keep asking—
quietly now,
because I’m tired—

Why can’t you just let me go?

You don’t see it.

You don’t see me.

But I see it now.

And that has to be enough.

JMS