I used to dream you
like a habit
like my heart forgot
how to sleep without your name.
You were the ache
I wore like perfume,
the echo I mistook
for music.
But time
time is a patient sculptor.
It chipped away the sharp edges
of your memory
until I could hold it
without bleeding.
Now,
I walk through the places
we once called sacred
and feel nothing
but the wind.
I don’t break there anymore.
I’ve stitched myself
with threads of silence,
with laughter that’s mine alone,
with mornings
that don’t begin with missing you.
Healing isn’t loud.
It’s the quiet decision
to choose peace
over replaying pain.
And I’ve chosen.