I’m not sure what’s worse than a breakup
If I already went through a divorce
Is it the fact that I can love again
Or the truth that I’m meant to be alone?
Because I swore I learned the first time,
how endings echo longer than vows,
how forever can fold in on itself
like paper burned at the edges.
And still, something in me reaches,
a reflex I don’t know how to kill,
like a door left unlocked on purpose
even after everything’s been stolen.
Maybe love isn’t the tragedy.
Maybe it’s the returning,
the quiet, stubborn hope
that refuses to stay buried.
Or maybe I’m just good at rebuilding
what I know won’t last.
