moving forward
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One morning she stopped checking for the name that never appeared, and the phone finally became an object instead of a graveyard.
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Choosing joy does not erase old pain; it simply refuses to let every bruise, promise, and goodbye own the rest of the story.
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She stopped mistaking chaos for love and learned to turn around when a road makes the body remember fear.
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The woman who once waited has already left, and the old door was burned for firewood the moment almost stopped being enough.
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The harm did not come from some abstract darkness; it had a familiar face, a familiar voice, and choices that belonged to you.
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Every love story ends somehow, but endings do not erase the tenderness, damage, or meaning of what lived before them.
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Some songs don’t stop belonging to you just because someone changes the dedication. This poem isn’t about ownership—it’s about memory, and how love can echo long after the music changes.
Between Bruises & Blooms 