I've moved on from what was,
to what is.
From what should have been,
to what was always meant to be.
From what's gone,
to what's here.
From the weight of my past,
to the echo of my present.
And not toward the future,
no, not yet
because sometimes the present
is the only place I can survive.
Love left me.
But it didn't leave quietly.
It tore through me,
like a wind that breaks windows
but never mends them.
It left a hole,
not just in my chest,
but in the sacred space
where I once kept my trust,
my hope,
my belief in something softer.
A hole of transparency,
where I see too much now.
A hole of spirituality,
where I pray,
but feel the silence answer back.
And if the universe won't take the blame
for how hollow I've become,
then maybe I won't take it either.
So I do what I must,
I fill the hole.
Sometimes with the fragments of my reality and
the things I can touch,
the pain I can name,
the nights I endure.
And when that's not enough,
I add imagination.
I pour in fantasy,
like warm honey over an open wound.
Because sometimes,
a made-up comfort
is better than a real heartbreak.
So if I seem distant,
if I seem lost,
know this,
I'm not running.
I'm surviving.
One thought,
one dream,
one fantasy at a time.