Love, After It Leaves

We loved each other

in unfinished sentences.

Always almost.

Always later.

Our mouths learned the shape of “someday”

but our hands never reached it.

Love came to us gently—

not as fireworks,

but as shared silences

that felt like home.

I thought that was forever.

I didn’t know forever

could grow tired.

You stayed,

but not all of you.

Somewhere between routine and regret,

your eyes stopped asking for mine.

I memorized that distance—

the space where love still exists

but no longer tries.

We didn’t break loudly.

No slammed doors.

No dramatic goodbyes.

Just the slow erosion

of choosing not to fight

for what once fought for us.

I still love you

in small, inconvenient ways.

In songs I skip too late.

In strangers who laugh like you.

In quiet moments

when my heart forgets

it’s supposed to move on.

They say love teaches.

If that’s true,

you taught me this—

that love doesn’t always leave

because it ends.

Sometimes it leaves

because it’s tired of being lonely

with someone

who used to feel like home.

And even now,

if I’m honest,

I don’t miss who you are.

I miss who we were

before love learned

how to walk away

without looking back.