We Forgot to Stay

We were two people

standing in the same room,

but living in different memories.

You looked at me

like you were already gone,

and I kept pretending

I couldn’t see it.

We still said I love you

out of habit,

like brushing teeth

or locking doors—

something you do

without thinking why.

I used to know

how your silence sounded.

Then one day,

it started sounding like goodbye.

You stopped reaching for my hand.

I stopped asking where you were.

Love doesn’t always die—

sometimes it just drifts,

quietly,

until you wake up one morning

and realize you’re holding nothing.

If someone asks

how it ended,

I’ll tell them it didn’t—

we just forgot to stay.