Rewritten In silence

I don’t write about you anymore

not out of peace,

but preservation.

Some names

begin to rot

if spoken too often.

I’ve buried yours

beneath metaphors and

half-meant endings,

hoping no reader would guess

you were once the whole story.

You were never a chapter

you were the ink.

But even ink runs dry.

And now I write in pencil,

so I can erase

the echoes of you

before they stain the page.

Because healing

isn’t about forgetting.

It’s about

rewriting.

And this time,

I am the hand

holding the pen.