I loved you like a language I never learned to speak,
but still carved into my bones every time I said your name.
I loved you with rebellion in my blood—
a kind of love that burns its own borders
and writes manifestos on the backs of receipts
left on your nightstand.

You were the storm I prayed for,
the quiet after, the flood that stayed.
And still, I made a home of your absence—
folded your memory into my spine
like a love letter no one was ever meant to open.

We were magic stitched in bruises,
tenderness pressed into silence,
a revolution that kissed instead of shouted—
but still collapsed beneath the weight
of not knowing how to stay.

Now, I keep you in the space between heartbeats,
in the soft decay of what-ifs and almosts.
And when I say I miss you,
**I mean I still believe
that some things broken
are too holy to throw away**