I will write your poetry and prose

You are still the same as before, and that is what frightens me most. I fear you will leave the way you once did, when my eyes overflowed and carried your reflection in every drop.

You were my poem. The way you tied my shoelaces felt like a promise I was too young to question. Messages unanswered. Receipts that read goodbye. Hospitals that smell like survival. A dried rose held close. I still write to you, though you live now only in language. I hope you take care of yourself. I hope you have learned how to stay.

I felt like a child offered sweetness for the first time. I trusted the hands that fed me, the care that filled my hunger. How could you leave, knowing how loudly my body called for you when you were gone.

Some feelings are wrapped carefully and never opened again. I carried thorns handed to me by others until I learned to cut the tie myself. I wish I had loved myself the way you once did. Perhaps then I would have bloomed not to be chosen, but to know my worth. Now I write to survive. To keep something alive. Perhaps this is moving on. Locking you inside language, not to imprison you, but to finally let myself live.