he learned
you can love someone
and still be
completely
alone.
even when they’re breathing
in your bed,
in your ear,
in your mouth.
she learned
you can fuck a man
and still
never get close enough
to touch the part of him
that matters.
she waited.
not for roses.
not for some grand confession.
just the small things.
a call that meant something.
an answer that wasn’t
a dead end.
a moment where she didn’t have to
wonder
where she stood.
but she was always
on the outside.
looking in
at a world
he wouldn’t share.
and still—
she stayed.
because he carried damage
like a religion.
and she thought
if she loved him hard enough,
loud enough,
real enough,
he might finally
feel clean.
but some people
don’t want to be touched
where it hurts.
they just want you close enough
to prove
they’re still bleeding.
he was still chasing ghosts.
not running after the one who left him,
but running
from the bruises left behind.
and somehow,
she became the place
he went
to feel less hollow.
not whole.
just less.
and when you love someone
who only wants a place
to rest their grief,
you become
the silence
they never apologize for.
and she?
she gave too much
too long
too softly—
until she forgot
how to ask
for anything at all.
but one day
the quiet
got too loud.
the hunger
too sharp.
and she walked.
no big scene.
no screaming match.
just absence—
clean and cold.
like winter
after a fire.
and he—
he’ll think of her
in moments
he won’t admit.
when it’s dark.
when it’s late.
when the phone doesn’t ring.
not because she was perfect.
not because she begged.
but because
she was real—
and he
wasn’t ready
for that
now there’s a quiet
he can’t name
that follows him everywhere.
skin loves fever 
You must be logged in to post a comment.