I was there. Pouring myself into you like water into sand. Watching you drink and call it nothing. Watching you walk away dry while I stood there empty.

I built a house in you. Laid every brick with my own hands. Slept on the floor of you because I thought one day you would call it home.

You burned it down on a Tuesday. You didn't even watch it fall.

And the worst of it the part that sits in my chest like a stone

is that I would have handed you the match stick if you had asked.

That is what you did to me.

You made love feel like a confession I should have kept to myself.

You made trust feel like a wound I opened on purpose.

You made me stand in the ash of everything I gave you and ask

whose fault is this?

And I already knew the answer.

I already knew.

But grief doesn't care about answers.

Grief just sits there in the rubble of what you chose to leave behind

and waits for a morning that stops feeling like loss.