Fracture Lines

The farther I wander from your shadow,

the louder it calls my name.

Distance was supposed to dull the ache,

yet every mile only teaches my heart

how to retrace its own footsteps.

And every time I return,

the whiplash lingers longer.

A cruel reminder that healing

is not measured by how long I’ve been gone,

but by how much of myself I leave behind

just to survive the journey.

They say to reshape yourself

is to become someone stronger.

But no one speaks of the funeral

held for the pieces that refused to let go.

The hands that reached for yours,

the voice that still expects your name,

the future that never learned

it had already ended.

I try to withdraw from you

like a tide abandoning the shore,

yet habits are crueler than addiction.

Years have hardened them

into veins beneath my skin,

beating with a rhythm

I never chose to keep.

What we built was carved in stone,

not flawless marble,

but weathered rock

that cracked beneath the weight

of too many storms.

Still, I trace every fracture

as though they were roads leading home.

Perhaps that’s the cruelest part.

Even broken stone

remembers the shape it once held.

And no matter how many times I bury

the parts of me that still belong to you,

they always find their way

back to the surface,

dusting themselves off,

asking me to believe

that ruins

can still be called home.