Just Pretend

It feels like everything ended a long time ago, but my heart continues to stand guard on the lower floors of memory. Where the silence is deafening, like underwater, and thoughts lazily recount old wounds. Each chord is like a sigh after a long argument: no one won, they were just tired of explaining who was right. The world has moved on, but someone is still waiting, not out of hope, but out of habit of keeping the door ajar. The longing here isn't loud, but quiet, restrained, almost domestic. Like a blanket that smells of someone who won't be back. And yet, that sound isn't about pain, but about that strange stubbornness to love even when it was time to let go.