I don’t think about you.
You think through me.
My body learned your weight
and now mistakes emptiness
for rest.
I cut you out of my life—
but you stayed in the marrow,
a second pulse
I never consented to.
Love wasn’t what broke me.
It was the way you fused
to my nervous system
and called it destiny.
I walk around intact,
but something in me
is still lying where you left it,
waiting,
rotting,
calling that patience.