Cathedrals Built on What-Ifs
I(23M) wrote this poem about a boy(21M) who will never love me the way I love him
There is a quiet way you enter rooms,
not like a storm, but like the light of a newly started campfire
soft enough I don’t even notice at first
how you warm me up.
You cook for me like it means nothing,
like tenderness is just another habit
you picked up somewhere along the way,
and not a language my heart keeps trying to learn.
You feed me laughter,
small touches of care
that land in me like music—
I was never meant to memorize.
And I—
I tell myself I am fine.
I tell myself this is friendship.
I tell myself a thousand careful lies
that all sound like your name.
You speak of her
as if it is the most natural thing in the world,
and I nod along,
because I have learned
how to swallow pain quietly.
Still, there are moments—
small mercies, accidental or not—
where I feel chosen in a way
that rearranges my entire existence
into hope.
But hope is a cruel architect.
It builds cathedrals
out of people who were never meant to stay.
And I have lived too long
inside the echo of what-ifs,
pressing my ear to doors
that only open one way.
So I begin the work
of loosening your name from my breath,
not as an ending,
but as a slow release.
I am not over you.
That much is still true.
But I am learning
how to carry love
without letting it carry me back.
And that is what moving on looks like:
not forgetting,
not erasing,
just finally walking forward
with my hands no longer reaching
for a door that will not open.