The Ex Who's Doing Better Than You
The One Who Forgot Your Name, Not the Glow
I forgot your name, not the glow.
I live in the quiet spaces between words, in the pause before the rain. I read books with broken spines and drink coffee that's gone cold because I forget it's there. I no longer speak the language of our past — it's a dialect I left behind, like a coat that no longer fit. I don't hate you. I barely remember the weight of your hand in mine. What remains isn't anger, just the echo of something that once burned hot and has now cooled to ash.
What I'm Into: the way light cuts across floorboards, the taste of rain on a peach, silence in a room you’ve just left, linen dresses slipped off one shoulder, the flicker of something wilder
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