Mercy

Simple.

I count the days I still see you as if they were borrowed seconds from a dream I was never meant to wake from.

Like the rain that falls not to nourish—but to remind you the sky is still capable of weeping.

The memories we share linger like the final breaths of something already dying—a future too blurred to name, a present fading, and a past more real than either of us ever were.

Letting you go is slow death.

Loosening my grip on your fingers for the last time, watching you vanish back into that distant city—and knowing I am not allowed to follow.

What else do you want from a heart caving in on itself, from a soul that has learned how to scream without making a sound?

The goodbyes grow colder.

The memories turn foggy.

The bonds unravel.

The paths dissolve into wind.

Would you even try to follow me now?

After all the times I left the door open and you stepped through like a stranger?

Some things don’t need to be understood. A look. A tremble. Words stained on forgotten paper— meaningless to the world, but written in blood, and meant only for you.

I stop—not to rest, but to give you one last chance to look back and see what you’ve left behind. To feel the dark that crushes me every time you say goodbye without hesitation.

I choke the winds that steal my time. I cage the escape because I know you’re already halfway gone.

Just wait—wait for morning, for the lie of sunlight to make this feel like less of a loss.

Stay. Even if it hurts. Stay here.