You loved me half,
for never whole,
you held my body—
yet missed my soul.

"We accept the love we think we deserve," they say,
and in your arms, I learned the cost of staying in your ways.
I drowned in devotion, while you stayed ashore,
clutching my hands, but never wanting more.

You kissed my lips, but not my name,
I was your comfort, but never your flame.
Maybe to you, this was all a game,
but I played it with blood, not tokens the same.

For I gave you trust that bent and bled,
built a home from words you never said.
"Hell is empty and all the devils are here,"
and I found them dwelling in your silence, near.

You loved my body, yet feared my depth,
you lingered in presence but absent in breath.
The weight of your half-love became my chain,
a quiet betrayal dressed up as refrain.

And now I’m left, misunderstood,
a loss that cuts deeper than it should.
For grief is sharpest when it hides in disguise—
the death of a love that never fully arrived.

Carried us longer than I knew I could,
a love that burned past the kindling of should.
Yet what is love, if not the art of ache?
"We are all fools in love," and fools do break.

I leave your half for something whole,
a love that will cradle both my body and soul.