1. I wake before
the sun does.
Before it gets the chance
to light up the empty space
that sleeps beside me.

2. My shoulders have
stained themselves
with purple fingerprints
from all the nights I have
bumped into your ghost.

3. Arms stretched out,
I have learned to smoothly navigate
through the dark. Find
something solid to
hold on to. You see,
you slipped
through my fingers
like a sinking ship.

4. Arms stretched out.
Arms wide open. Just
in case you ever decide
to come back.

5. Fast forward
a week, a month, a year,
and I am still here.

6. You see,
I thought I couldn’t do it.
Couldn’t bear to live with
the empty space that looked
so much like you.
Look at me now.

7. If you knocked on my door today,
I would take in
your scent, your smile, your hands. But
it wouldn’t be the same.
What are you looking for? I’d ask.
This isn’t home
for you anymore.
Go home.
- A.Y // on learning to live without you (via 2wentysixletters)