Writers 
I still love you.
That’s the problem.
If I didn’t,
leaving would be easy,
and these sleepless nights
wouldn’t feel like wars
fought quietly in my chest.
I am not standing at the edge
because I stopped caring.
I am standing here
because I care so much
that I keep trying to carry
what two people were meant to hold.
And lately,
I keep wondering
if you notice the growing distance too.
If you feel the quiet heaviness
settling in our conversations,
or if you simply let the silence grow.
If you hear how tired love sounds
when it has been asking
to be seen for too long.
Because I do.
I feel it in every “I’m fine”
that isn’t fine at all.
In every moment
we almost reach each other
across the dark,
but somehow still miss.
I do not need perfection from you.
I just need to know
I am not grieving this relationship alone.
That I am not the only one
staying awake, tracing old memories,
trying to save what we built.
Not the only one
holding onto us
with trembling, tired hands.
I need to know if you are still here with me,
or if I am holding on to a shadow.
Because I still love you.
Enough to stay.
Enough to fight.
Enough to admit
that I am exhausted,
yet still hoping you will reach back.