Every time the sky between us darkens,
you do not raise your voice—
you lower the bridge.
"Don't text."
"Don't call."
"We don't have to meet."
"Let's skip tonight."
As if love is the first thing
that must be packed away
whenever sadness comes knocking.
Our routines—
the quiet good mornings,
the sleepy good nights,
the comfort of simply existing
in each other's day—
become the price we pay
for every misunderstanding.
I keep wondering,
why is distance
always your answer to pain?
While I reach for your hand,
you loosen your grip.
While I search for words,
you erase the places
where words could have lived.
I never feared the arguments
as much as I feared
how easily you offered
to live without me for a while.
Because love,
at least the kind I dream of,
doesn't ask,
"Should we stop being us?"
It whispers,
"I don't know how to fix this yet...
but don't leave my side."
So every time you offer silence,
I quietly ask myself—
If our love is something
you can set aside
whenever life gets heavy,
am I your peace...
or merely the first thing
you're willing to lose?
