Lessons in Leaving

I used to think love ended with a speech,

a clean last line, a door clicking shut.

But you left in installments,

one unread message at a time,

Your replies shrinking like sweaters in the wash.

The first lesson was volume:

How someone can turn themselves down

So gradually you call it “busy”

instead of “gone.”

I tried talking louder to the void,

as if emojis could wake you.

The second lesson was inventory:

deleting your photos and finding you

in the reflection of every bus window anyway,

In the way I still bought your favorite cereal

out of muscle memory, not hope.

The third lesson hurt the most:

realizing you weren’t a villain,

just a person who stopped choosing me,

while I kept choosing you in secret

like a bad habit hidden in my sleeve.

Now I’m studying a softer curriculum—

how to order one coffee instead of two,

How to walk past our restaurant

without scanning every face.

Some days I even forget your orbit,

and for a few bright minutes,

I’m not the one left behind,

I’m just a body, finally moving forward.