I’m grieving you in real time—
no obituary,
just a quiet understanding
that what we had doesn’t breathe anymore.
Because how do you walk around this world
like we didn’t leave pieces in each other?
Like my DNA never settled in your bloodstream,
never rooted itself beneath your skin,
and my name doesn’t still live
in the back of your mind at night?
See—
this isn’t the kind of grief
people bring food for.
There are no “stay strong” texts,
no black suits, no sermons—
just me…
and the echo of us.
And it hits different—
because I could still dial your number,
still hear your voice,
still fall back into something familiar…
but I don’t.
That’s discipline.
That’s pain with self-respect.
I had to bury the version of you
that loved me right—
even though you’re still out here
breathing.
R.I.P. to what we used to be—
and somehow, happy birthday to what we became.
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