The Edge of Unraveling

I stand here

at the edge of something,

not sure if it’s an ending

or the start of unraveling.

Why do I love you still?

You, with your hands outstretched

but never to hold me,

just to take all I pour out.

You drink me in,

sip by sip, until I am hollow,

until I am a shadow of all I wanted to be—

for you,

for us,

for a dream that was never mine to keep.

I crave your touch,

not as a fleeting thing,

but as something solid,

a hand that reaches back,

pulls me in and says,

“I’m here. Stay.”

But you’re a ghost in my arms,

slipping through my fingers,

and I am left to wonder

if it was ever real.

I want to let you go,

to watch you drift away

like the mist you’ve always been.

But I hold on,

to hope, to habit, to heartache.

I want a partner,

a love that holds me,

wants me, chooses me.

I want to be consoled,

not by silence,

but by a voice that says,

“You are enough. You are everything.”

I know I must set you free,

but what if, in doing so,

I free myself?

What if the end

is not my breaking,

but my beginning?

I keep thinking

there’s something more

just beyond us,

a space where you will meet me halfway,

where you will hold me, not drain me.

But I am alone in this room,

and the echoes tell me truths

I don’t want to hear.

I wonder if the pieces of me

that you’ve taken

are enough to fill your emptiness,

or if you will always be thirsty,

unable to give back

what I so desperately need.

What I give to you

feels like an offering to a void.

I used to believe

love was enough,

that if I gave all of myself,

it would come back tenfold.

But now I see,

love is not enough when it’s one-sided,

when it’s just me standing in the dark

waiting for a light that never comes.

I want to be held,

to be wanted in the way I want you,

to be loved without question,

without begging.

But you’ve taught me

that some hearts cannot be moved,

and no matter how much I give,

you will never be mine.