to wake inside the thought of this
the heights of what we once called us
and i take shape through it
forming ideas in my head
from broken words
and half-spoken meanings
sentences unfinished
yet somehow still understood
we make our time together
sometimes too lost
a little too gone
like nights stretched beyond reason
like conversations blurred at the edges
until we no longer know
whether we are healing
or simply distracting ourselves from silence
and i think maybe
we call ourselves broken
because it is easier than admitting
how deeply we feel things
broken by virtues
and vices we hate to speak aloud
the habits we carry quietly
the ache of wanting too much
the fear of being seen completely
but my vices
i love to write about
the way he tasted against my skin
the warmth of his breath
melting into darkened conversations
eyes carrying a sullen sadness
a man diseased by his own mind
by overthinking
by longing
by the quiet war he fights within himself
and i take from these moments
but i do not steal them
i leave him here instead
beneath the sway of the trees
where branches split against the sky
and shadows move like unfinished thoughts
i speak things into existence there
confessions disguised as poetry
trying to leave pieces of myself
inside moments i designed
because sometimes imagination
feels safer than reality ever could
between branches i divide
the thoughts living inside my head
the versions of myself
i no longer accept
the fears i wore for too long
the old reflections
i’m slowly learning to release
we realize eventually
that waters always shake
even the still ponds we stand beside
that nothing stays untouched forever
tuesday nights become
just another day in the week
ordinary in appearance
yet heavy with memory
because sometimes the smallest evenings
hold the largest emotions
and over time
we learn broken lines
are sometimes meant to exist that way
because when you flip them sideways
when you look from another angle
they begin forming entirely different meanings
a perpendicular street
half-lit
half-healed
yet carrying the feeling of something new
and maybe that is all becoming really is
not fixing yourself
not returning to who you were
but standing in the wreckage of old versions
and realizing
you no longer belong to them
i left that desire there for myself
between the branches
between the split roads
between the person i had been
and the one finally learning
how to walk away without looking back
because some endings are not tragic
some endings are the first honest thing
we ever give ourselves