I don’t talk about you.
I keep you.
The way you keep things
that hurt too much
to touch.
There are days I think of you
without meaning to,
and others when I force myself
not to,
just so I can breathe.
No one sees this emptiness
because I learned how to fold it,
how to hide it inside normal gestures,
how to call it “I’m fine”
when I’m not.
Sometimes it scares me
that my life keeps moving
without asking your permission.
As if going forward
meant leaving you behind.
And if one day I stop crying for you,
it won’t be because you stopped hurting,
but because I got tired
of bleeding in silence.