Two Worlds
We were never meant to meet.
I see that now with a clarity that feels almost cruel.
Two worlds should not collide unless they intend to ruin each other,
and we… we did not even hesitate.
You were broken in a quiet way,
the kind of broken that still looks beautiful from a distance.
I was broken harshly,
full of light that trembled like it knew it would not last.
Strange how chaos recognizes chaos faster than love recognizes love.
We were never walking the same direction,
though we stood side by side for a while.
You kept listening for echoes behind you,
as if something broken there
still called your name.
I kept looking ahead,
convinced that endurance meant purpose,
that if something hurt,
it must be shaping me, not warning me.
You returned to ruins
like they were home.
I mistook the fire for a sunrise
and called it faith.
You were the moon to me.
Not the gentle kind a poets praise,
but the distant one, cold, watchful, unreachable.
And I, in my arrogance, believed I was the sun,
as if warmth alone could persuade the night to stay.
You smiled, and I felt chosen.
You turned away, and I felt erased.
It is terrifying how one person
can become both proof of your existence
and evidence against it.
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Part of you disappeared the day he left.
I saw it happen.
It was not dramatic.
No thunder, no collapse.
Just a silence where something living used to be.
Part of me broke searching for what you lost.
I searched carefully, like a man afraid of stepping on glass.
I searched faithfully, like a man who believes devotion is a cure.
I did not understand then
that some ruins are sacred
and should never be touched.
You kept moving toward him, even in absence.
I kept waiting for you, even in presence.
Tell me, which of us was more foolish?
The one chasing a ghost,
or the one hoping the ghost would choose him instead?
There were moments I wanted to shout,
to demand you leave,
to beg you to release me from the quiet violence of hope.
But there were also moments
when holding your hand felt like the only truth left in the world.
Contradiction became my language.
I imagined running away with you,
somewhere far from memory,
where the past could not pronounce our names.
Yet in the same breath,
I imagined dying alone, peacefully…..
because solitude, at least, does not lie.
This is the confession I never gave you
loving you was not the tragedy.
Understanding you was.
Because once I understood,
I saw that you were never choosing between him and me.
You were choosing between what was lost
and what was possible.
And people rarely choose possibility.
It demands too much courage.
Still, a part of me, stubborn, humiliating, faithful,
remains seated,
hands open,
as if love were a train that might return
if I waited long enough.
I know it will not.
Do not mistake me.
I am not delusional.
I am simply unable
to become someone who never loved you.
So here I remain,
not yours,
not free,
not healed,
just divided,
like two worlds
that touched once
and have been drifting apart ever since.
