There’s a storm
in the shape of you—
it never passes.
Just circles,
soft thunder
aching behind my ribs.

Your name
is a splinter
caught between
midnight and memory,
where I still wait
for a version of you
that didn’t leave.

I was a kaleidoscope—
full of color,
shifting, honest.
But you wanted a mirror
that only showed
what you already knew.

So you left.
And you took the light with you.
Like love was something
you could unsee
once it stopped fitting
your reflection.

Now I spill
into hollow spaces
where even my own voice
doesn’t come back.

I miss you
in the worst way—
like a song
you made me ashamed to sing,
but I still hum it
in the dark,
soft and broken,
like I’m apologizing
for existing.