When the Heart Breaks, It Writes

Goodbye In A Minor Key

You promised me the world
and I believed you
not because you were convincing,
but because I wanted to.

I rearranged the furniture of my heart,
made space where there was none,
offered you the keys
and you hummed a tune
that didn't belong to me.

The forest caught fire on a Tuesday.
You didn't stop it.
You watched it bloom into smoke
and called it poetry.

I kept singing
wrong notes and all
because silence scared me more
than your absence ever did.

There were signs:
the way you looked away when I laughed,
how my reflection began to blur
in every mirror you touched.

Still, I walked blindfolded,
thinking love was meant to be
learned by crashing.

To lose you
wasn't a tragedy.
It was an unraveling
quiet, necessary,
like shedding skin
that had grown too tight.

Two months
and you were someone else's
unwritten story.
I stayed behind,
sorting through broken sentences.

I thought I deserved the breaking.
I mistook pain for proof
that I was real.

But some dances end
before the music stops.
And some lovers
are just stories
written in pencil,
meant to be erased
by the rain.

Now,
the page has turned.
The fire has cooled.
The chapter
closed like a book
left on a train seat
in a city that no longer remembers my name.

Goodbye,
and thank you
for the empty spaces
I learned to fill alone.