I try to feel something for someone new,
just a small spark or two,
but all I ever do
is get reminded they aren’t you.
Not in the way they laugh,
not in the way they say my name
like it means something
instead of just… filling silence.
I search their face for echoes.
For a familiar curve of a smile,
for a ghost of the way you used to look at me
like I was the only constellation in your sky.
But they aren’t you.
And that truth hits
again
and again
and again
like a heartbeat that forgot how to stop hurting.
I try to convince myself:
Give them a chance.
Be fair.
Let the past stay buried where it belongs.
But love isn’t a switch.
It’s a wildfire.
And you were the match.
Now every new hand I hold
feels like I’m trying to warm myself with ashes.
They deserve more than half-lit eyes
and a heart that keeps checking the door
like maybe
just maybe
you’ll walk back through it.
But you won’t.
And still
every time someone new leans closer
I realize the cruelest truth I know how to say:
I’m not comparing them to you.
I’m just realizing
how much of me
you took with you.
