23. The Hollow That Remains
- Aug 16
- 2 min read
It’s quieter now.
The noise has faded,
the laughter folded into memory.
The ache no longer claws at my skin;
it hums beneath it, steady, low,
like a song I can’t turn off.
Never enough.
The world moves.
I do too.
But somewhere between each step,
there’s a pause,
a space where you still live,
untouched, unaged,
like a photograph that refuses to yellow.
Never enough.
I fill it.
With new mornings,
laughter that belongs to other mouths,
dreams that don’t wear your shape.
But everything slips through.
Everything echoes against the walls you built
and returns to me smaller.
Never enough.
I fill it
with long nights,
conversations that slip into the dawn,
songs that dance with the restlessness.
But everything slips through.
Everything stomps against the walls I built
and returns to me in ashes.
Never enough.
The love did not end.
It etched.
It carved its name in the stone of me
so deep that no tide can wear it smooth.
It wasn’t simply lived;
it rewrote.
Never enough.
I carry the sweetness and the sting.
Where fruit once was,
there is only hollow now,
a hollow that does not ache for filling;
it demands the impossible.
And nothing,
no gentle hand,
no new dawn,
no tender story whispered in the dark,
will ever be enough.
This is the place you left in me.
Not a wound that heals,
but a wound that stays.
A confession to a love that became legend.
A space carved so precisely
that even forever would not be enough.
And so I live,
not searching,
not hoping,
simply knowing.
Nothing will ever be enough.