Did I even mean anything to you?

When you broke up with me,
you called me needy,
said I loved too hard,
from the very start.
You needed space, you said,
like the distance could hold
all the pieces of us
that shattered on your word.

"Friends?" I dared to ask,
hoping you’d soften some,
but you shut that door,
locked it tight with your silence,
a final nail to the heart.
I stood there, breath caught,
in a whirlwind of memories,
clutching those sweet whispers
of “I love you,”
wondering if they meant
anything at all.

I needed you to tell me the truth,
not hide it behind pretty lies,
those polite words you chose.
It hurt more than anything,
the thought of faking love—
I thought us real, while you
wove dreams that felt fragile
in my fingers,
until they slipped too easily
from our grasp.

Three days have passed,
and I’m stuck in this rain,
each tear a testament
to how deep this ache runs.
I crash against pillows,
drowning in our moments,
the laughter, the smiles,
the promises made
under skies painted promise.

But still, here I am—
pining for the ‘us’
that we painted together,
the affection I held tight.
You were supposed to be
the one for me,
while I sit here without an answer,
testing the weight of longing,
the rawness of this pain.

Tonight, I look into shadows,
wondering if you feel it too,
every sigh, every thought of love—
or if you’re dancing
in that space which feels too vast
to hold the memories of us.
I just wish, oh, I wish—
that at least you’d said
a proper goodbye.