The Weight of Fragility

For the one whose absence I rehearsed a thousand times in my mind, because I knew I could never truly let you go—and yet, every moment with you feels like holding onto something impossibly fragile, a love that imprints itself deeper with every breath. I live half-content, half-anxious, always bracing for the ache of losing what I can’t bear to release.

I tread lightly, afraid to disturb the silence between us.

You feel like delicate sands slipping through my fingers,

each grain a piece of you I can never hold for long.

I ache for the day I might lose you completely,

but somehow, I've taught myself to endure the emptiness.

Why is there so much emotional distance?

I want to cross it, to tear it apart,

to hold you tightly and sleep,

just like I do in my dreams—

those fleeting, perfect dreams

where the weight of the world dissolves,

and it’s just us, unbroken.

I want to forget everything else,

to bury every doubt, every fear,

and exist in the quiet certainty

that you are happy with me,

that this love is enough.

I yearn for your approval and your love.

I keep walking towards you even in my dreams, hoping to reach the shore to you.

I love you—deeply, fiercely, quietly—

even though I've learned how to live with the ache of your absence.

The attachment has dulled, maybe out of self-preservation,

but the love remains, steady and unyielding,

a truth etched into my marrow.

I wish you could see yourself through my eyes,

see how precious you are, how rare.

Even in my numbness, my heart softens for you.

I worry—constantly—that I might hurt you,

that I might falter, that this might end.

I live with the knowledge that we are fragile,

that any moment could be our last.

So I hold each day close,

each fleeting second a gift I dare not waste.

No moment with you is ever taken for granted,

because cutting you from my soul would be like tearing out my lungs—

I could survive, but I would never breathe again.

© 2025 Inaba Tarek