You married her.
After months. Months.
You chased her with the same heart that once beat for me.
With the same lips that tasted like goodbye when you left.
You gave her a life that I had built in my dreams.
A home that I had held for us.
And I—I am left with fragments.
Words you said.
Promises you never made to break.
Photographs that don’t look like lies, yet.
Sentences that play like lullabies and land like knives.
Some clothes.
A toothbrush.
A mark on you from me in the shape of bracelet you kept on you.
Things. Just things. Not you.
Because you’re gone. Not just gone—you’re hers.
And whenever I think about it, I fall apart in places I didn’t know
could break.
At first, I cried.
I wept until my body shook and my voice vanished.
But now,
now, the tears are gone.
And what’s left is worse.
A stone in my chest.
A bull of fire lodged in my throat.
A weight that has made a home inside me.
That pain,
it’s part of me now.
As much a part of me as you were.
As you are.
