There were no explosions.
No cracked earth, no visible wreckage.
They say the story ended with no physical casualties.
No actual limbs lost, so they thought,
Besides the hand that I grew so accustomed to holding,
The forehead that I was so used to kissing,
And the familiar eyes that I gazed into every night,
All lost now in the aftermath.
There were tears of course,
Shed from empty sockets, not for any blood though,
But for the wounds that appeared with each cutting sentence,
The conversations that replay constantly in my head,
Each revealed word more hurtful than the last.
There were no explosions.
No cracked earth, no visible wreckage.
It concluded halfway through,
Unaware of the signs, I continued on,
Meticulously planned out future chapters,
Penned the groundwork to continue the story,
Only to have those pages ripped out, never to be read.
And what remains is the hollow shell of a book,
The heartache of the yearning for more once a story has finished,
Except our story was incomplete.
So what’s left is an unresolved pain caused by
the shattered fragments of what once were happy memories,
Now tattered by the person who decided to rewrite the ending.
There were no explosions.
No cracked earth, no visible wreckage.
At times, I saw our relationship like a house of cards,
A house that we built together,
A house that could be knocked over by heavy sighs,
But a house that could also be easily rebuilt every time it fell.
I felt as if you stopped picking up the cards;
Stopped trying to re-arrange them back; to rebuild.
But even with that, I didn’t mind carrying the burden.
Didn’t mind scrambling to pick up the cards as they fell,
Working to put back together our house by myself.
And in the frenzy of it all,
I guess I never realized when you decided to walk away.
When you decided that this wasn’t the house you wanted to build.
And this metaphorical full deck of cards.
Scattered across the floor like a warzone.
There were no explosions.
No cracked earth, no visible wreckage.
No physical mess to clean up.
Just a room filled with what you’ve left behind upon every visit.
I do my best to cling on to the little that remains,
But my chest begins to forget the crook of your back,
The smell of you starts to fade,
And slowly, the sound of your voice becomes nothing but a distant memory.
Every so often though, I can’t help but be drawn back into the fray.
I encounter moments that I wish I could share with you,
Food that I wish you could taste, puppies that I know you would love to pet,
And I find myself in situations where I simply wish you were there.
But you’re not. You can’t be.
I can’t expect you to be. Anymore.
This dawning, this realization,
There were no explosions.
No cracked earth, no visible wreckage.
Just the little of what’s left of us.
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