Writers 
You left your promise at my door,
wrapped in words I could not see,
and I carried every syllable
as though it belonged to me.
You spoke of days that would not fade,
of hands that would remain,
but time revealed the spaces
between your words and what you claimed.
I waited where the evening fell,
beneath a quiet, fading sky,
listening for the sound of you—
but only distant winds replied.
Your promise became an empty room,
with no footsteps in the hall,
no voice returning through the walls,
no answer when I called.
I gave your silence countless names,
gave your absence every excuse,
until I understood the truth:
I was the only one still holding on.
And that was when the silence broke—
not because you finally came,
but because I stopped believing
that waiting could change your name.
I will not beg an empty echo
to become a living voice.
I will not build my future
around someone else's choice.
You left me with a hollow promise,
but you did not leave me hollow.
From the place where hope once broke,
I found a strength I did not know.
So let your words dissolve behind me.
Let the last echo disappear.
I loved what I believed you meant—
but I choose myself from here.
And if your promise calls again,
let it knock against the past.
I have learned that some doors close
not from weakness,
but because they were never meant to last.
