You did not break-
no,
more of a slow crumble,
gentle erosion-

exponentially so.

Your bones,
soft with wear
and use
softly deteriorated,
slowly melded
to the shape of my palm.

Your skin shushed off your frame
slowly
like pouring hot tar
onto the floor,
until all that was left
was the idea of you,
if even.

If there is only a memory of you,
a breath of you,
do you still exist?

Did you ever?

Our past,
soft against my skin,
is just that-
the past.

You are a faded photograph
tacked to our living room wall
as I leave
for good.

You are the quiet things
I never said
but should have.