Slowest Goodbye (Final)

Plant by the sink, leaves turning brown, Your side of the dresser gathering dust. I left the porch light burning every night, Telling myself you’d come back to us. Said “we’re fine” when the questions came, But silence was louder than the words I gave. I’m not okay. It didn’t end in flames, it bled out day by day. We wore down soft till the edges frayed. I told the world we’re fine, But I can’t lie tonight — I’m not okay. Cold coffee sits in a half-lit room, TV glow on an empty chair. I learned to sleep with the bed unmade, Pretending I didn’t care. Raised my voice just to feel alive, But I was only afraid to say goodbye. I’m not okay. It didn’t end in flames, it bled out day by day. We wore down soft till the edges frayed. I told the world we’re fine, But I can’t lie tonight — I’m not okay. I called it “fine” so I wouldn’t feel, Counted to ten till it all turned still. Now I’m alone with the words I hid — I miss you more than I miss the pain we lived. I’m not okay. No doors slammed shut, there’s no one to blame. Two good hearts that looked away. If healing needs the truth, Then let me start with this — I’m not okay. I’m not okay.