Without Edges
On what remains when nothing remains
I lie on the kitchen floor.
My cheek pressed against the cold tiles,
as if something outside of me
could make me feel again.
The bed still breathes of you,
of something that felt real for a moment
real enough
that I believed it.
It doesn’t end when they leave.
That’s the first lie.
The second:
that it was only one night.
As if time could explain anything.
As if length were the same as meaning.
My body is still open,
a quiet wound of skin and silence.
Not destroyed
just estranged from itself.
I run my hands over my stomach,
as if I could bring myself back,
piece by piece,
breath by breath.
This hollow inside me
has no edges anymore.
It breathes,
pulls the world in,
spits out memories.
And sometimes,
just for a moment,
it sounds like peace.
I thought closeness would heal,
if I held onto it tightly enough.
But you were only there
where I had already stopped belonging to myself.
I didn’t want to love.
I wanted to be light
tender, to the point of dissolving.
Now I lie here,
and the tears
find their own ways,
past me, through me,
as if to say:
this too is a kind of touch.
Nothing spectacular remains.
No drama, no scream.
Only this quiet knowing:
I am still here.
And maybe what remains of love
is not the other
but the way
you gently
find yourself again.
Samu


„My body is still open,
a quiet wound of skin and silence.“
My favorite lines. 🖤
So touchingly beautiful 🧡