Still, i long.
I tell myself I have loosened my grip.
Soon, I will let the days pass without waiting, and the nights will fall without me whispering your name. That I have detached—or at least, I try to believe that I have.
But my prayers still carry your name. In the quiet of the morning, in the hush of the afternoon,
in the stillness of the night. Not just out of habit, but out of love, a love that lingers even when I try to let it go.
Longing is a quiet thing, it does not need permission to return. It sneaks in through the smallest cracks—a familiar scent, a fleeting melody, the way the rain sounds against my window.
You have moved on.
And I wish I could say that knowing this leaves me untouched, unshaken. But envy is an ache I did not invite, a weight pressing against the part of me that still wants to hold what is already gone.
I do not resent you for healing faster. I do not hate the new warmth in your life. But I wish I could match your forgetting, wish I could move through the world without carrying your absence like a quiet shadow.
Still, I long.
Not just for peace, not just for release—but for the impossible. For the day you turn around, for the day your heart finds its way back.
And maybe one day, I won’t. Maybe one day, your name will be nothing more than a passing thought, a soft echo instead of a lingering ache.
But today, deep down, I still wish for the sound of your footsteps making their way home to me.
