when the ink dries but the wound doesn't 

i ran out of poems to write about you—
not because the feelings stopped,
but because they kept echoing
the same ache
in different shapes.

every word felt like tracing the outline
of a ghost that wouldn’t leave.
i gave you metaphors,
turned my grief into gardens,
dressed pain in pretty syllables
hoping if it bloomed,
it would stop hurting.

but flowers wilt,
and even the most delicate stanza
can’t hold the weight of
what you left behind.

i bled ink
on every blank page
as if spilling enough
would drain you from my veins.

but you stayed.
not in the way lovers stay,
but like a splinter
beneath skin too tired to heal.

i searched for closure
in verses,
in the spaces between lines,
in the breath between stanzas—
but all i found
was myself
repeating your name
like it still meant warmth.

you see,
there’s a quiet violence
in trying to forget someone
who lives in everything
you try to create.

i began to fear my own words.
they stopped sounding like mine,
only whispers of you
wearing my voice.

i ran out of poems
because you took the last of my metaphors,
and left me with silence
that still screamed.

but if i ever write again—
not out of ache,
but from peace,
from growth,
from soft memory
untouched by sorrow—

then maybe i’ll finally
be free.

and so i wait,
not for you,
but for the version of me
who can remember
without breaking.

i hope the next time
i am able to write a poem about you
will be something
my heart won’t ache while writing
and my tears won’t fall while reading.