This Is the Last One About You

I’ve written you
in a thousand shapes—
as spark,
as silence,
as maybe,
as ghost.

I’ve held your name
like a match between my teeth,
lit it again and again
just to feel something burn.

But this—
this is the last one.

The last time I’ll shape my ache
to fit the hollow you left.
The last time I’ll confuse
your quiet for safety,
your attention for care.

I know now:
I was a warm place
you visited,
not a home you ever built.

You were the almost
I carried like a scar—
visible only in certain light,
but always there
when I traced my own softness
and wondered why it stung.

You said you couldn’t do long distance.
Turns out,
you just couldn’t do me.
And that truth
is a bruise I’ve stopped pressing.

Let her have the poems
you were never brave enough to earn.
Let her be the girl
you suddenly know how to stay for.

I won’t pretend it doesn’t hurt—
but I won’t beg the ache
to mean more than it does.

This is not bitterness.
It’s clarity.
It’s choosing the quiet
that doesn’t wait for you to fill it.
It’s me,
writing the final line
without your name at the end.

Because I am done
building altars
for someone
who never learned
how to worship.

This is the last one.
And finally—
I’m free.

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