Mourning Cursive - Where The Light Doesn’t Fall

You kissed me like you were erasing something. Not passion—more like guilt, or a memory. I didn’t stop you. I wanted to know what it felt like to be forgotten by someone who once knew everything. We were always more beautiful in reflection. Even then, I think we knew we wouldn’t survive being seen in the light. You curled against me like a question. Not seeking comfort—just proximity. As if the warmth might convince you to stay a little longer. As if touch could cover up everything we’d stopped saying. But love isn’t quiet. It rots in silence. It grows teeth in the pause between sentences. It turns every glance into an autopsy. In the museum of my grief, you are an exhibit without a plaque. No date, no name— just a room of light that never quite reaches the corners. And in that dimness, I relive the way we faded. The last time we made love you were already leaving. Your body still moved like it remembered mine, but your eyes had already gone searching. I memorized the way your shoulder looked as you turned away. Not in anger. Not in sadness. Just in absence. And that was somehow worse. I still sleep on the left side. Still fold the blanket back for you. (Your perfume clings to the cotton ghost of our sheets) I imagine you in the doorway— not coming home, just checking in. You always walked like the world owed you a softer ending. But some stories refuse resolution. They just haunt the margins. In the museum of my grief, you are an exhibit without a plaque. No date, no name— just a room of light that never quite reaches the corners. And in that dimness, I relive the way we faded. (Not in tragedy. Not in rage. But in the slow, exquisite erosion of two people trying to remember why they ever held hands in the first place.) I still wait for you Where the light doesn’t fall