Lingering

I thought maybe

if I let someone else touch me

the past would loosen its grip

that your name would fade

between breaths,

between skin and silence.

But love doesn’t leave like that.

It lingers

in the quiet after,

in the way I turn away

not from them

but from the truth.

Because it wasn’t just a moment.

It was me

trying to outrun a feeling

that still knows where I live.

And now guilt sits with me,

soft but heavy,

like I’ve betrayed something sacred

not them,

not even you,

but the version of me

that swore I loved you honestly.

How do you hold someone new

with hands that still remember

how you felt?

How do you say yes

when your heart

hasn’t learned how to say goodbye?

I wish healing

didn’t look like this

like borrowed closeness

and quiet apologies

no one hears.

I wish I could split myself in two:

one who has let go,

and one who never had to.

But instead,

I’m here

learning that moving on

isn’t a straight line,

and that sometimes

we hurt others

while trying to stop hurting ourselves.