The man who promised forever in a voice so steady.
He moves like the tide—swift, relentless, unburdened, washing over the past as if it were nothing but a dream that never settled into dawn.
He carries no remnants of me, no echoes of my voice caught in the wind, no trace that I was ever there.
I, too, once traced that shore, barefoot in the glow of soft-lit evenings, hand in hand with the man who promised forever in a voice so steady, I believed it was stone.
I whispered my name into the hollow of his throat, tucked it beneath his ribs, wove it into the cadence of his breath, believing love would make it stay, believing I was something the tide could never take.
But love is a fickle tide, a current that shifts without warning, a wave that kisses your skin only to pull away, leaving you soaked in the illusion of its warmth.
And I—
I am stranded on its receding edge, half-drowned in the weight of his absence, watching him drift, watching him dissolve, watching the man I loved become a stranger in the arms of someone new.
