Gentle Detachment

I thought letting go meant ripping,

teeth clenched,

a dramatic tear-down of the past

like wallpaper you hate.

﹁﹂

But it’s been quieter than that.

More like loosening my grip

one finger at a time

while the world keeps happening

around my small surrender.

﹁﹂

I still see you sometimes

a story tag, a mutual friend’s photo,

Your laugh caught in the background

like a bird I can’t name.

﹁﹂

My stomach used to twist.

Now it just… notes it.

Oh. There you are.

And then it passes.

﹁﹂

I don’t wish you harm.

I don’t wish you back.

Both of those can be true

And it surprised me

How adult that feels.

﹁﹂

Some nights I replay everything anyway,

because my brain likes reruns.

But I don’t climb inside the scene anymore.

I watch it from the doorway,

hand on the frame,

Breathing like I belong to myself.

﹁﹂

I am learning to release

without turning bitter,

without freezing into a statue

that calls itself “strong.”

﹁﹂

If love was a tide,

Then this is the shoreline after

still damp, still real,

but no longer drowning.