Fragile

Touch

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How can a touch feel so hollow from hands once so deeply desired? Sometimes, I think I miss you—but perhaps it's just a part of me longing for the idea of someone finally seeing me. I romanticized the thought of us—two souls, broken by love, hoping to heal through giving and receiving it. But maybe we weren't meant to offer that to each other.

I thought setting my ego aside might show me what it feels like to trust again, to rebuild after being touched by so many who left nothing behind. I believed that the time we spent knowing each other would create something lasting, but knowing isn't keeping, and time doesn't promise forever.

Sometimes, I miss the way your words felt kind. I miss the way your touch could be soft, warm, even whole. But then I remember how often I reached for you, yearning for closeness, only to find emptiness. How strange, to pour into one another and still feel a void.

I thought I loved you, but I see now I didn't love myself enough. I put my pain aside, made space for trust, and tried not to let my wounds bleed into us. Yet it wasn't enough, because you still saw me as someone who might drain you, rather than someone who wanted to pour life into you.

I stayed long enough to show you I could be different, but I left when I realized our touch wasn't made for one another. Perhaps that's why I never felt fully myself—why my femininity, my softness, felt stifled. I was too busy proving I was enough to see that I already was.

And so, this is goodbye. This is me letting go. My gentle touch wasn't meant to linger on your skin, and I hope you find someone whose touch feels whole to you. Meanwhile, I'll return to myself, to a love that doesn't ask me to diminish who I am to be worthy of it