31/03/2026
Writing poetry has become my therapy... I stopped writhing years ago but I started writhing again recently and here's one the ones I wrote ☺️
Not the last
I woke up slowly, like my body was testing the air, checking if it was safe to stay.
Warmth pressed behind me, steady, unremarkable in the best way, and for a moment
I didn’t think of you at all.
Then a quiet ache slipped into my chest
the memory of your hands, your softness,
the way I once believed they were only mine to hold.
And yet you are not the last to touch me anymore.
My skin knows another warmth, another hand that lingers, another body that doesn’t ask me to brace.
He breathes against my neck without thought, without pretense, and I feel the difference
in every inch of me.
And still, somewhere inside, you flicker, a familiar ache, a soft echo of intensity I once mistook for love.
I loved you like a storm I never learned to outrun.
Your halo tempted me, your hurricane taught me
how fragile closeness could be.
Here, in this calm, I let my body rest.
I let his hand trace me slowly, let my heart remember that not all touch carries a test,
not all warmth leaves a bruise.
You were the one who taught me longing.
He is the one who teaches me patience,
who lets me feel without counting the cost.
I don’t wake with you anymore, but a part of me
still carries the ache of almosts, of intensity, of storms.
And maybe that’s enough to hold both
the memory and the present, the longing and the calm, all in the same quiet morning,
all pressed softly against someone new.
