The Places You Left Me In

You never really left

all at once.

You left in fragments—

in coffee shops I can’t walk into,

songs I skip halfway through,

and jokes that still make me smile

before I remember

you told them first.

You left me

in the seat beside you

on that 2 a.m. train,

where we didn’t speak—

but your pinky touched mine,

and it was louder than words.

You left me

in the grocery aisle,

arguing over oat milk

like we were building a future

with every mundane choice.

You left me

in every “almost,”

every “maybe,”

every “just give it time.”

I should hate you.

But I don’t.

Because you taught me

that some people aren’t meant to stay—

they’re meant to show you

where the light lives.

And then go.

Now I carry you like sunlight

in the back of my mind—

not enough to burn,

but enough to warm

the coldest parts

of who I used to be.