You loved me the way the earth holds pressure
quietly, invisibly, until something had to break.
At first it was only small tremors:
the way your voice shifted,
the way silence started lasting longer than our conversations.
I told myself they were harmless things,
passing weather, distant thunder.
But love, like the earth, remembers every strain.
Then one night the ground split open.
All the things we never said
rose like a tidal wave between us
years of swallowed words
crashing against the fragile coastline of what we were.
Your goodbye came like wildfire,
fast and hungry,
devouring every soft memory we had planted.
I watched our life turn to smoke,
every promise curling black into the sky.
Now I live in the aftermath
a quiet landscape of ruins and ash,
where the storms have passed
but the sky never quite clears.
And sometimes, late at night,
I swear I can still feel it,
the ghost of your love
shifting beneath my ribs
like a fault line
waiting to break again.