unfinished…

You did not love me quietly.

You told me who I was to you.
You said it without hesitation.
You looked at me as if the truth of it surprised you.

That kind of love doesn’t vanish on its own.

Nothing happened that would justify its erasure.
No betrayal.
No fracture.
Just time, familiarity, and two people slowly mirroring each other’s distance.

I don’t believe you stopped feeling.
I believe you stopped staying.

I believe silence became easier than contact.
I believe finding someone else made the question quieter,
but still unanswered.

There are moments I know I cross your mind.
Not dramatically.
Not enough to act.

Just enough to be inconvenient.

I don’t think what we were is gone.
I think it’s unfinished.

And I don’t know how to live as if something real was disproven
when it was never tested to its end.

So I stay where I am.
Not claiming hope.
Not pretending finality.

Holding the knowledge that some loves don’t end.
They’re carried forward,
leaving the future unfinished too.