In our separation, who is to blame?
And who decides such things?
Each word I offer fades against your calm;
Should I still add a plea to this silence?
You stay, saying it’s your choice,
but each moment feels like a reluctant favor.
If I fail to understand you, is that my fault?
Or is it you, who’s locked the doors to your feelings,
and still expects me to find a way in?
You want me to know you, completely,
to read every breath, every flicker of your eyes,
as if your love were a riddle only I must solve.
But I break a little every time you say “I’m fine,”
while hiding whole oceans behind those words.
And you...
you disappear into your calm,
as if pain could never reach you.
I’ve tried to meet you where the silence lives,
but it never opens its doors.
Tell me,
is love always this silent?
Or were we just strangers to its language all along?
