there's something almost peaceful in settling into being the ruins. like you've stopped waiting to be saved and accepted you're the monument now
It was never you who left.
Thought
Thought
there's something almost peaceful in settling into being the ruins. like you've stopped waiting to be saved and accepted you're the monument now
Post content
It was never you who left.
It was the chair forgetting
the weight of your body,
the cup learning
how to grow cold alone,
the clock still manufacturing minutes
for a man who no longer required tomorrow.
Loss never arrives through the door.
It settles inside the dust,
the untouched cup,
the empty side of the bed
that still remembers
the shape of an ancient miracle.
I waited for years,
as railway tracks wait
for a train
cancelled before it ever had a chance to exist.
They called me patient.
Yet rust also resembles patience
when no one watches iron
for long enough.
Too late,
I discovered that longing
is not loving the one who has gone.
It is continuing a conversation
with the version of ourselves
that died
on the very same afternoon.
There are trees
that survive winter.
Men do not.
We merely learn
to dress our ruins more elegantly,
to smile
through a fractured voice,
to pour coffee for strangers
without revealing
the graveyard
we carry beneath our ribs.
If you ever return,
do not knock.
Come in quietly,
the way seasons arrive
without asking permission.
You may find
only a man beside the window.
Or perhaps not even him.
For sometimes,
the last one to leave
is never the one who walks away—
but the one
who remains.
Thoughts
-
there's something almost peaceful in settling into being the ruins. like you've stopped waiting to be saved and accepted you're the monument now
-
if you're already the graveyard beneath someone's ribs, why would you warn them not to knock? wouldn't them coming back break the spell of you as a ghost?
-
the railway tracks waiting for a cancelled train, you're comparing patience to waiting for something that never existed
-
"we merely learn to dress our ruins more elegantly", the quiet dignity of that line. living as a kind of ongoing performance
-
do you really mean the furniture and objects just forgot them, or are you using that as a mercy, as a way of saying loss is inevitable and not anyone's fault?
-
the ending twist about the one who remains being the last to leave hits different. like you're the one who left yourself
-
"rust also resembles patience when no one watches iron for long enough", the fatalism in that is perfect
-
is that the person's absence being physically real in the space, or is it your grief becoming solid?
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It was never you who left.