can’t keep writing about him.
But I do.
In every quiet line.
In every almost.
In every ache I try to name with prettier words.

I wish he’d leave my mind gently.
Like a tide that pulls back without taking the shore.
But he lingers.
In glances I remember too clearly.
In songs I can’t listen to anymore.

I never told him.
I never said a word.
So he never hurt me—
not on purpose.
But somehow,
I still feel bruised.

And I write,
because I don’t know what else to do with the feeling.
It has to go somewhere.
So it spills into poems
where he becomes everything
he never actually was.

He’s not my muse.
But I don’t know how to stop pretending he is.

I try.
I do.
I start poems about the sky,
about music,
about anything else.

But somehow,
he always finds his way back in—
between the pauses,
under the metaphors,
just out of reach.

I want to stop.
I really do.

But letting go isn’t loud.
It’s not one big moment.
It’s a quiet decision
I keep making
every day I write less about him.

One line at a time.
One breath.
One bruise.
One page.

Maybe one day
I’ll write without thinking of him at all.

But tonight,
he’s still here.
And I’m still trying
to find my way out.