almost 2 years

“it’s been almost two years, and still— somehow, you’re the reason i write. i don’t think of you every day anymore, but when i do, it feels like touching a scar— faint, but real. a reminder of what once hurt enough to make me create. i tell myself i’ve moved on, and maybe i have… but sometimes, your name still finds its way into unfinished drafts, and midnight thoughts. you taught me that words can heal and haunt— both at once. you made me realize that sometimes love doesn’t stay, it just transforms— into verses, into silence, into something only i understand. and now, every poem i write feels like a small conversation with the ghost of what we were. you don’t know this, but you’re in every metaphor— in every almost, in every maybe someday. even when i write about stars, it’s you. when i write about loss, it’s still you. it’s strange, isn’t it? how time moves on, how everything fades— yet somehow, you stayed. the calendar turned, seasons came and went, people arrived, and left, and changed— but you remained, like an aftertaste of memory that refuses to leave. i don’t cry over you anymore. but i still write. not about us— not always, not directly— but somewhere between the lines, your shadow breathes. every poem i write carries a little of you: the way you laughed, the silence after you left, the ache of almost. two years— and i still don’t know if i’m holding on, or honoring what i lost. but i do know this: you were never just a chapter. you were the reason i ever picked up the pen. and maybe, that’s enough. maybe you don’t have to come back for me to keep writing. maybe you already did your part— you became the reason my silence learned to speak. it’s been almost two years, and somehow… you’re still the reason i write. not because i miss you, not because i want you back, but because a part of me still speaks in the language you left behind. every poem i write isn’t about you— but it always starts where you ended. either way— you’re still, and maybe you’ll always be, the reason my words exist.”