Untitled II

It’s been eight months the silence still breathes your name, soft as the echo of rain that never meant to fall this long. I no longer beg the dawn to bring you but sometimes, when the wind leans close, I almost whisper stay again, out of habit, not hope. The pieces we left unfixed still glimmer in the dark like old stars, and maybe that’s enough to know they once burned for us. Some nights I trace the shape of what we were, like smoke curling back into fire, and wonder if healing means forgetting or simply learning to remember without ache. I’ve grown quiet in ways you’d never see learning to love the parts of me that waited too long at your door, learning to close it gently. It’s been eight months the world kept turning, but sometimes I think time moves only when I stop looking back.