The sad pieces I've written of you leaving
are more than the happy pieces I wrote of us together.
It’s not that joy was scarce—
it was abundant, but fleeting,
like the sun passing through a curtain crack,
touching everything briefly
before retreating into shadows.

My friends say my heartbreak poems
carry more weight,
as if pain digs deeper grooves
than love ever dared to tread.
They tell me my sorrow blooms into art,
that the ink of grief stains the page
in ways happiness never could.

My therapist read the scribbled notes
I wrote late at night,
when the air was too thick
and the silence too loud,
when I asked...