I used to ask with open palms,
with broken hours, with quiet calms.
I used to hope you'd understand
the way I trembled in your hand.
I used to reach through walls of no,
through cold excuses, ebb and flow.
I waited long. I bled with grace.
But love can’t breathe in empty space.
So one day, I just didn’t speak.
No gentle nudge. No softened cheek.
No “Will you hold me?” late at night.
Just silence swallowing the light.
And you—
you didn’t even see
how quiet became home for me.
How something once so soft and loud
now folded into lesser sound.
I stopped because the asking burned.
Because the ache was never returned.
You didn’t break me. Not quite true.
I just grew tired of needing you.