This is the hundredth time I’ve promised myself—
the hundredth time I’ve said this will be the last piece about you.
And still, here I am,
pen trembling, dragging your ghost into the margins of another night.
How did it all crumble this fast?
Why did you look like forever
when you were always meant to be a moment?
Why did you resemble love so closely
when you were never supposed to be the love for me?
I circle these questions like a prayer wheel,
as if turning them over might summon an answer.
But all I find is silence—
the kind that bruises louder than words ever could.
They say repetition dulls the ache,
but each time I write you, it cuts deeper,
like breaking the same bone again and again.
Maybe I keep writing because I’m afraid—
afraid that if I stop,
you’ll vanish completely,
and then what would all this hurt have been for?
So this is the hundredth time,
the thousandth time—
me, trying to turn you into words
when all you ever left me with
was silence.