You didn’t just leave—
you chose heartaches
and renamed it fate.
You walked out of love
into all mechanical—
a clockwork existence,
where breaths are counted,
smiles are scheduled,
and life continues
without ever arriving.
You chose chains
and sanctified them as promises.
You chose silence—
not the kind that heals,
but the kind that remains
like dust in abandoned rooms,
where no one listens
for the tremor in your heartbeat.
Once—
the charm of sitting beside you
felt like time itself
had forgotten to move.
The magnetic pull of our eyes—
two constellations
colliding without ruin,
speaking a language
words could never survive.
Our throbbing heartbeats—
twin echoes in one chamber,
never meant
to learn separation.
Your silken touch,
your palms resting within mine—
as if the world,
had found its center in us.
That shy smile—
a half-written confession.
The quiet, bride-like desire—
a flame veiled in modesty,
yet burning with forever.
I saw it all…
and I believed
in its eternity.
You found solace in my arms—
a refuge where your storms
forgot how to rage…
and now,
you lie beside a stranger,
mistaking stillness
for peace,
mistaking absence
for acceptance.
Tell me—
how long before your laughter
becomes a rehearsed echo?
How long before your eyes
unlearn the language of light?
You left a love
that would have carried your tempests
like sacred burdens,
for a world
that will measure your existence
in polite distances
and passing glances,
but never understand
the depth of your becoming.
You chose to be unheard,
to dissolve into the unnoticed,
to become a shadow
in a story
that once revolved around your light.
And I—
I am left with heartaches
that refuse to decay into silence.
They rise,
again and again,
against the ribs of reason—
unwilling to become mechanical,
unwilling to forget
the way you once
made life feel alive.
You chose a life
that will slowly unmake you—
thread by thread,
breath by breath,
until even your reflection
forgets your name.
And I remain—
watching love
erode into absence…
I am not angry with you—
perhaps love never learned
how to hold anger.
You had your reasons;
I have only memories
that refuse to listen to reason.
Even now,
my dreams return you
to the quiet shelter of my arms,
as if sleep still believes
in what waking denied.
Imagination tries—
but fails to replace you;
it builds your shadow,
never your presence.
My soul—
it still reaches for you
like a tide that does not understand
why the moon has turned away.
And these tears—
they have forgotten obedience;
they fall
as if they owe the truth
no restraint.
Perhaps love
is not meant to be repeated.
Perhaps it happens once—
and lingers like a wound
that learns to breathe.
At least
for a worldly fool like me…
who still calls your absence
by the name of love.

.    .    .