Lost you

I held your hand, when the night grew thick, but even stars fall faster than a heartbeat can pick. You whispered hope, and I stitched it to skin, but my arms weren’t wide enough to keep you in. I built a world out of threadbare prayers, tried patching wounds with desperate cares. But your silence deepened like an untamed sea— and I drowned in the ache that you couldn’t stay with me. I screamed at fate, at the weight I bear, for not being enough when you needed me there. Now I carry your name like a song half-sung, the verse where I failed forever on my tongue. I lost you— not in death, but in time, in the space between your hurt and mine. And if I could bleed just to bring you light, I’d empty the sky to make you alright.