I came to you like rain to stone,
not out of love, but what I’ve known.
The sky forgets how not to weep,
and I forget the wounds I keep.
Your name still hums beneath my breath,
a ghost that lulls the heart to death.
We meet, not new, but worn and through—
the comfort hurts, yet feels like truth.
I swore to heal, I swore to part,
but habit built its home in heart.
So here I am, the past my creed—
returning only out of need.
Not out of love, but out of habit—
the quiet grief of having had it.
