Did I mean something to you,
or was I only a softness
you stepped into
for a little while?
Was I a place to rest,
a hand to hold in private,
a warmth you wanted
until wanting asked too much?
I ask because you left so gently
I almost have no right
to call it leaving.
Only distance.
Only less.
Only the slow correction
of something once close
into something careful.
And now I stand in front of you
inside the smaller shape of us,
trying not to reach
for what is no longer mine
to touch.
Did I mean something to you?
I do not ask
so you will come back.
I ask because I need to know
if what broke me
ever lived in you too.
Because I can survive the loss.
What I do not know how to survive
is the thought
that I was carrying something sacred
while you were only passing through.