I told my friend I just needed a break.
Just a smoke.
Just five minutes.
But it wasn't about the cigarette.
I took a different turn,
the kind your heart chooses,
before your mind can stop it.
"Why this street?" he asked,
noticing we weren't headed anywhere specific.
I shrugged.
Said it was on the way.
Said I needed air.
But the truth?
I just needed her one last time.
The engine idled.
My friend stayed on the phone.
And I stood in silence,
lighting the cigarette
like it was a ritual.
But my eyes didn't blink.
They were locked
on a building that still knew me.
Same windows.
Same faded balcony.
Same silence that used to hold
two people who never said enough.
The world kept moving,
but that place stood still.
Back then,
I stood there with love in my chest.
Now I stood with a goodbye
that never got spoken.
Funny, isn't it,
how a street can remember everything
when people forget?
I didn't stop to smoke.
I stopped to time-travel.
To ache.
To stare at the past
and wonder if it ever looked back.
I stopped to remember
the version of me
that once believed she might come outside.
I didn't say a word.
I just let the silence speak for me.
And when the cigarette burned down,
I walked away
the same way I had loved her
quietly.
YOU ARE READING
Words That Stayed with Me
RandomThese aren't poems. These are pieces of me, the thoughts I typed but never shared, the feelings I felt too deeply to say out loud. If you've ever loved in silence, dreamed too vividly, or been hurt without blame... this is for you.
