You never stormed out or slammed the door—
you just started speaking a little less than before.
The distance came dressed like routine and grace,
and I kept pretending not to notice the space.
You said you’d changed, that you’d settled your past,
but healing was never something built to last.
You wore promises like polished shoes,
shiny at first, but quick to lose.
I asked for honesty; you offered charm,
As if affection could replace alarm.
You fed me lines rehearsed to please,
but they unraveled slowly, piece by piece.
I held on, not out of trust, but hope,
as if the dream of us could somehow cope
with all the silences you let grow—
the kind that say more than words ever show.
You loved me most when I asked for the least,
and backed away the moment I ceased
to smile through wounds and laugh on cue,
like that’s what partners are meant to do.
You gave just enough to make me stay,
then vanished more with each passing day.
It wasn’t dramatic—it wasn’t loud.
The collapse was quiet. But it still counts.
You called it timing. You called it fate.
But love doesn’t leave when it shows up late.
It doesn’t vanish when asked to bend—
it doesn’t break just to pretend.
You said, “You made me better,”
then left me worse.
That’s not redemption—
that’s just rehearsed.
And though I don’t miss you the way I did,
the memory lingers like something hid.
Like a book once loved, too worn to read,
yet kept for reasons I’ll never need.
No, I won’t rewrite you as more than true—
you were not a storm, you were just a wound.
Not the love of my life, but a lesson instead:
Some people don't leave. They just fade, like thread.