I wish you would leave—
slam the door,
say something cruel enough
to make it easy.
Give me a clean ending,
something sharp
I could point to
and say
that’s where it broke.
Because right now
it’s not broken—
just bent
in ways that don’t look like damage
until you try to stand on it.
You stay.
Soft.
Familiar.
Close enough
to call it love
on the good days.
Distant enough
to make me question
everything
on the bad ones.
And I sit here
in the middle of it—
not hurt enough to walk away,
not whole enough to stay
without feeling it.
So I wait.
For something louder.
For something final.
For a reason
that makes sense
to anyone but me.
Because if you left,
if you made it obvious,
if you turned into something
I couldn’t defend—
then maybe
I wouldn’t have to sit with this.
Maybe I could pour it out
into something stronger,
call it heartbreak,
call it coping,
call it anything
but what it is.
Which is this—
loving someone
who doesn’t quite lose me,
but doesn’t fully keep me either.
And the quiet truth
I don’t say out loud—
I don’t want you to leave.
I just want this
to hurt enough
to justify
the way it already does.