Surviving Heartbreak

One Last Conversation

If I could have one last conversation with you,
I know exactly what I'd say.
Because ever since you left,
all I've wanted is one more day with you.

I've written post-it notes in my mind,
tiny records of everything you've missed,
just in case I ever get to tell you.
I would tell you how life sucked for a while,
how the mornings felt too sharp,
and the nights felt too heavy,
how nothing—no song, no scent, no city street—
felt quite the same without you.

I would tell you how, at first,
I didn't know how to exist
without loving you at full capacity.
How I tried to pour that same love into others,
but it spilled over, misplaced,
never fitting quite right,
because I was still trying to love them
the way I loved you—
and that's just impossible.

I would tell you that I look in the mirror
and still see every handprint you left on my body,
every touch, every trace of you.
Not just on my skin,
but in the way I carry myself,
in the way I speak about love,
in the way I learned to give too much,
because once, I gave 150%
just to cover the 50% you couldn't give.

And then, I would thank you.
For loving me as much as you could.
For treating me the way you did.
For leaving when you knew I wouldn't.
Because now I understand.
I finally do.

Loving you had swallowed me whole,
and you saw it before I ever could.
You knew that in order to find myself,
I had to lose you.
You knew that sometimes,
we have to break the hearts we cherish most
to set them free.

And before I go,
I will tell you this—
clinging isn't love,
and running isn't evil.
They are both wounds,
searching for safety,
both worthy of healing.

And maybe, just maybe,
we were, too.

—MistakenGenius