They don’t know they live in my lines,
in the curves of half-written poems,
where I hide their names
beneath metaphors and rain.
They don’t know that every silence
I’ve ever endured
became a verse,
and every goodbye
turned into a stanza I never planned to finish.
They’ve stopped remembering me—
but I still write them down,
so I don’t forget
how it felt
to be loved
and left.