You were sky,

the kind that holds water

without letting it fall.

You could’ve cried.

You didn’t.

You held the weight

like mercy disguised as silence.

You told lies

with good intentions.

And they cracked you open

in places no one saw.

Softness,

it seems,

is the most dangerous thing

to carry.

You were always light.

Even when you pulled the curtains closed

and let the dark tuck you in

like a secret.

You called it safety.

I called it surrender.

If only they knew,

darkness is not absence.

It’s light, turned inward.

And some hearts only survive

by glowing where no one looks.

Don’t be alone.

It wrecks me.

Even from here.

Even like this.

If your joy means

watching you from the edge of the frame,

then I’ll watch.

Quietly. Always.

Don’t look back.

I ruin what I reach for.

And I won’t let that happen to you

again.

Build the walls.

Close the gate.

Etch me out of the picture

if it means you can breathe again.

I’ll carry the version of us

that doesn’t hurt.