I ran so fast,
I forgot to look back—
to think of
who we left behind.

Not just a house,
but a life
not yet lived—
photos we never took,
moments still waiting.

And the ones we did take:
smiles frozen in time,
not knowing
what would be torn away.

Road trips—
you at the wheel,
us curled up behind,
laughter, shouting,
too many bathroom stops.

All the places we’d go.
All the places
we never got to.

We got up,
drank coffee,
shared the weight:
your chores, mine,
your stress, mine.

Now it’s just me.
All the bills,
all the burden.

The great big bed—
empty but for the dog,
curled in your spot.

The mess you left is mine,
and there’s no one here
to clean it up
but me.

So I do.
Every damn day.

I scrub the dishes
you said you’d get to.
I throw out the dreams
we never used.

I curse you,
and I carry on.

I sweep the shards
of what we were,
pick out the pieces
that still matter.

I hammer my anger
into something solid.
I use it to build.

Not the life we planned—
that one's gone.
But one I can live with.
One that’s mine.

I am not what I was,
but I am whole.
Because I got up.
Because I chose to be.

The feeling lingered
in my bad dream—
a fear that sits
like a stone in my gut.

I want to wrap myself
up in you,
but you are not there.

Are you not mine,
no matter how I try
to pretend?

You drive the distance,
but always return
to someplace I don’t know.

The fear steals
the breath from my lungs.
Sadness creeps in.

How do I believe
what I cannot see,
when this—
this is what remains?

Morning comes.
Light filters
through gray curtains.

My hand grazes
the pillow
where your head once lay.
I press it to my face—
but your scent is gone.
And so are you.

The feeling, the fear,
the sadness—
dull now, but still there.
It lingers.

I push it back
with your words—
unprompted,
softly spoken
or tapped into a screen:
LOVE YOU.

And I—
I love you too.
But fuck this fear.

I am open.
Unshielded.

And that
is a delicate
place to be.

For you.

My questions
go unanswered—
mostly because
I haven’t asked them.

There’s a throb
in my chest,
an unknowing
sensation.

Unease is
why I’m quiet.
My brain forms the words
my mouth won’t speak.

I try to respect
your space—
you—
but what about me?

Should I go on
with these thoughts
lingering inside,
waiting to eat me alive?

I don’t know who she is.
No answer.
No solace.
No consolation.

Just an enigma
I cannot forget,
no matter how much
love I feel. But why?

I can’t move
the puzzle pieces together.
Not with my own fingers.
I don’t move them at all.

They lie scattered
on the table.
I try to look past it,
block the image,
push it from my mind—
but it stays.

A question
too large to answer.

Because I thought
it might not matter—
that wanting you,
loving you
so deeply
would make it disappear.

But it looms.
And I still won’t ask—
I just want to know:

Are you mine,
alone?