Between Bruises & Blooms

No slammed door.

No final fight.

No sentence sharp enough to mark the place where we stopped existing.

Just silence—

slow, ordinary, merciless silence.

The kind that leaves your coffee growing cold because you’re still listening for a phone that has forgotten your name.

I replayed every conversation like a ghost haunting its own house.

Was it that joke?

That hesitation?

The way I loved a little too honestly?

Or did your heart already have one foot outside the door while mine was still setting another place at the table?

You promised tomorrows with the certainty of someone who believed them.

Then one day, tomorrow arrived without you.

The cruelest endings are not written with hatred.

They are written with unfinished sentences.

With “I’ll see you later.”

With “We’ll talk.”

With words that never knew they were becoming last words.

So I gathered every unanswered question into my hands like broken glass.

Not to hold forever—

but to bury.

Because even gardens must be planted with something.

If you left me without an ending,
then I will write my own.

And somewhere, between the bruises and the blooms,

I will become the closure I kept waiting for someone else to give me.