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Then I rebuilt myself again, piece by piece.

After that, I tried to love again.
I tried to prove to myself
that I was still capable of loving,
that I still had something to give.

I forced myself to dig up feelings
from a tank that had long run dry.

But I always stopped halfway.
Not too close, not too far.
Just enough to feel something,
never enough to let it grow.

I always found a way to leave.
Even when nothing was wrong.

And when I was the one left behind,
I didn’t even flinch.

Because somewhere in my chest,
the room was never cleared.
It stayed his.
As it had always belonged to him.

So in my own quiet way,
I searched for him again.

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