i sometimes

I sometimes pen lines

about the ache

you left in your wake—

not to linger,

but because

mending forms this way:

raw,

ongoing,

true.

No—

I never despised you.

You possessed a rare force,

keen and distinct—

a knack

for tucking away happiness

and stepping past

the ruins.

I had to forge

a quieter strength.

Not wiping away scars,

but choosing

to set them down.

This isn’t joy.

It’s freedom.

And it’s effort.

Yet—

there were radiant times,

gentle gestures,

fleeting moments

held meaning once.

One day,

I’ll write of those.

Let them unfold,

Let them shine

on their own terms—

not to call you back,

but to honor

their glow

for for what it was:

a passage

I’ve walked

and moved beyond.