I loved you in a language my mind couldn’t translate,
where forever meant you,
and leaving meant impossible.
But you stood there, living proof
that something could feel like home
and still choose to walk away.
I kept holding two truths in the same trembling hands:
that you loved me
and that you let me go.
Tell me how both can breathe at once
without suffocating something sacred.
You said words that built me a future,
soft promises stitched into my ribs,
yet your actions unraveled them
like they were never meant to last the night.
And I believed you.
God, I believed you.
Even when the cracks showed,
even when your eyes started drifting
like you were already mourning us
before I knew we were dying.
I told myself love doesn’t leave,
so if you were leaving,
then this must not be love.
But that meant rewriting every moment,
every laugh, every late-night confession,
every “I’m yours”
into something counterfeit.
So I split myself in two instead.
One version of me still sees you as forever,
still traces your name like a prayer,
still waits for a version of you
that never contradicted itself.
The other knows the truth:
that forever doesn’t hesitate,
doesn’t fade,
doesn’t replace you quietly
while still holding your hand.
And now I live between them,
a fracture that won’t heal,
a war with no victory.
Because loving you felt eternal…
but losing you proved
it never was.