I reach for my phone again and again
Even when I know there will be nothing.
Still, I check.
Still, I hope.
Still, I feel the weight of your silence squeezing my chest so hard I can’t breathe
A year ago I promised myself I was done.
A month ago, I told myself I wouldn’t cry.
Today, I am swallowed whole by the emptiness you left behind.
Was I not enough?
Did I ask for too much?
Was I simply too easy to forget?
I wipe my face with the back of my hand.
I tell myself—one more time—this is the last tear I will shed for you.
But grief is not a switch.
It is a slow, unraveling thread,
Tonight, it is still pulling me apart.
Maybe tomorrow, I will start to put myself back together.
Maybe tomorrow, I will forget the sound of your name on my mouth.
Maybe tomorrow, I won’t reach for my phone.
But tonight, I break.
And that, too, is a kind of healing.
Sowan Writes 