The Things I Don't Say

I do not say I miss you—

not in the honest, ruinous way.

Not in the way it clings

to the marrow of my thoughts

or drips from my fingers

when I reach for things

that were once ours.

I don’t say I’m tired—

not just in body,

but in spirit.

Tired of pretending the weight I carry

is muscle and not memory.

Tired of swallowing grief

like communion,

believing it makes me holy.

I don’t say I’m angry.

Because what if it’s too late for rage?

What if the match already burned out

while I was still learning

how to strike it?

I don’t say I’m lonely.

That word feels too fragile,

like porcelain I wasn’t allowed to touch as a child.

Instead, I fill the space with noise—

tasks, smiles, distractions—

and hope the echo doesn’t give me away.

I don’t say I still believe—

in magic, in forgiveness,

in the possibility of being known

without armor.

But I do.

Quietly.

Like a candle lit in a storm cellar.

There are things I want to say

when the world quiets—

when I’m brushing my teeth,

or walking past strangers,

or staring at the ceiling at 3:11 AM.

Things like:

“I’m not okay.”

“I wish you had stayed.”

“I never meant to leave that way.”

“I still love you.”

But instead, I say nothing.

Because silence

doesn’t reject me.

It just waits.

Like a patient god,

nodding in the dark.