You said we were too comfortable,
like it was something to outgrow,
like ease was a warning sign,
like peace meant we were doing it wrong.
But I thought comfort was the goal.
Not the kind that dulls you,
but the kind that lets you breathe.
Where silence isn’t empty,
just full of understanding.
I thought love looked like this:
your name feeling like home in my mouth,
your presence not needing to perform,
just being enough.
When did steady hands become unexciting?
When did calm hearts start to feel like cages?
When did we start mistaking chaos
for something worth holding onto?
You called it “too comfortable”,
I called it safe.
You called it “losing the spark”,
I called it finally not burning.
Maybe you needed the fire,
the kind that flickers and fights to stay alive.
But I would’ve chosen the quiet warmth,
the kind that lasts through the night
without asking to be noticed.
And now I sit with the absence of you,
wondering when love became something
that had to hurt to be real.