#foryouk.

Are my hands already tired

from holding

the thread that ties us together?

I don’t know.

I only know I’m still holding it.

Callouses have formed.

Wounds too.

Drop by drop,

it bleeds.

I feel nothing now—

only this:

I don’t want

to let it go.

I fucking miss you.

Especially now — the weekend —

when we’d lie still,

absorbed in our little world,

parallel,

yet interwoven.

Time would loosen its grip,

afternoon drifting into night,

until sleep found us

with you pulling me closer,

our breathing learning

If you ever find your way back to me,

I won’t hold anything against you.

I will receive you as you are,

nothing changed, nothing concealed—

The way the evening sky gathers the bruised light of the city,

quietly, without judgment,

I don’t know how to fill the waking hours.

They arrive without instruction.

Morning asks for movement,

for purpose,

but all I have is breath

and the careful work of not breaking.

So I gather myself slowly—

a cup of water,

a song to listen,

a room left quiet,

the light learning how to enter.

Time brings no comfort.

It only watches.

It keeps moving even when I don’t,

even when I am busy stitching myself together

with habits that look like strength.

Some hours I wait for nothing,

just the feeling that I am still here,

still intact enough

to be seen without explanation.

I spend the day holding everything in place,

balancing loss with routine,

calling survival a shape I can live inside.

And when night finally softens the edges,

I let go of the performance.

I am not okay—

but I am still holding,

and for now,

that has to be enough.

It’s hard to grasp what passed between us,

yet it lingers, resonating deep within my soul.

Some days, grief rises like relentless waves,

crashing over me, pulling at my breath.

Still, I choose to move forward—

to exist quietly, to be present,

to hold myself with gentle care.

And always know—

wherever you wander,

whatever you carry,

if the weight ever grows too heavy,

there is an arm, unwavering,

I loved you still, in quiet ways—

and I carry care for you like a soft ache.

Yet I keep moving,

trusting the path that calls me forward.

And if one day you find your way to where I am—

not hurried, not afraid—

I believe what meets us there

will be something kind,

I have no strength left to chase,

no words to pull you close,

yet here I stand,

rooted in the silence of your absence.

My heart is a quiet storm,

catching up to the truth

my mind has known

for far too long.

I wait—not in hope,

not in demand,

but in the stubborn ache

of a soul refusing to disappear.

I breathe through the weight,

I honor the hurt,

I cradle myself

in the space where love lingers

but does not command.

I am here.

I am waiting.

I am whole,

even in the stillness