I carried your memory
like a holy book
I no longer believed in...
still heavy
with all the verses
I dared to read you out loud.

Every time I opened it
I found a different ending

It taught me pain would make me wise
And it made me stronger
More careful
with my words
More violent
with my silence.
More compassionate
During my solitude

I kissed love once
not the romantic kind
but the kind that stays
after you've buried it
The kind that haunts you
with the sound
of its own heartbeat
walking away...

I buried my heart under your silence
and now the flowers that grow there
have no name
Only thorns.
Only fragrance
that reminds me
of what I'll never touch again

In the synagogue of shadows
they don't read from books
they read from scars.
The ink is pain
The paper is skin
The truth bleeds

Deeply

If you are reading this -
Know you were not the wound.
You were the mirror that showed me where I bled
I chased your shadow
until I realized
It was my own longing
Wearing your shape

Today,
I no longer carry that book, but its pages still live inside
my skin

(I miss you)