For every moment I missed you, a tremor of fear grew,
the ache of clinging to a shoreline I’m not sure is there.
You drift, I think—an elegant, stubborn planet
in its quiet orbit around what we called “us.”
In the ledger of us, I spy a deficit of gravity.
You wear the language of distance like a tailored coat,
poised, polite, almost philosophical—
as if the universe handed you a map and said: proceed with care.
And I? I measure time by the thrum of your breath.
When it falters, so does my scaffolding of us,
not for want of effort but for want of staying power
against the weather of growing apart.
Today, right here, I confess: I am drifting away from our concept of us,
not out of malice, but because honesty insists on its own orbit.
The anchor you seek—faint, perhaps—needs a harbor,
and I’ve learned that sailors must sometimes name the tide.
If we are to continue, let us speak plainly:
not in the rhetoric of “always” or “forever,”
but in terms of now—what we can give, what we can endure,
and what we must release to keep one another honest.
I love you with the candor of a theorem:
precise, vulnerable, and unapologetically true.
If our equations align again, we will rewrite the proof together:
not as a relic of what we were,
but as a hypothesis of what we might become.
Until then, I will hold the memory of us lightly,
like a bookmark in a book I still want to finish—
not to halt the story, but to let the next chapter arrive unforced.
And if you need to go, go with the dignity of a question answered aloud:
the courage to choose what keeps your heart awake.
Love, in its best, stubborn form, remains:
an experiment with variables named Y and I,
a pursuit of meaning in a world that refuses to promise.
May we be honest enough to call it what it is—
and brave enough to let it be what it might become.
