I did not lose you. I lost the sound of myself while loving you. Somewhere along the way, my name grew quiet. I learned how to listen for what you never said. I folded my voice smaller, trimmed it to fit spaces you refused to stand in. Loving you was not a blaze. It was wearing down. Gentle. Courteous. So gradual I did not notice myself thinning at the edges. I learned to hover. To wait. To ask permission to exist. I called it loyalty, when it was really me stepping away from myself inch by inch. You did not steal anything. I offered it freely. My rest. My appetite. My anger. My exits. I stayed until staying felt like virtue. I stayed until pain felt like evidence. I told myself endurance was strength. But strength does not feel like forgetting how to breathe when no one is watching. Now when I reach for you, I do not touch a person. I touch a version of myself who kept saying sorry for wanting to be held. I did not lose you. You left intact. I am the one learning how to come back, slowly, tenderly, to the body and voice I once set down for love. ~ still waiting...Thea Hart ~