The me that remains
is quieter now—
not gone, not broken,
just… distilled.
Like rain that once fell loudly
against the roof of every moment,
now gathered
into something still enough to hold.
I used to be all edges—
sharp with wanting,
bright with noise,
spilling over every silence.
But time—
patient, unannounced—
wore me softer.
Not smaller.
Never smaller.
Just truer in shape.
The me that remains
does not chase every echo.
Does not beg the world
to answer back.
I have learned
how to sit with absence
without calling it emptiness.
There are pieces of me
I had to let drift—
versions that only knew
how to survive
by becoming everything at once.
I thank them.
I release them.
What’s left
is not what I lost—
it’s what endured.
A steady pulse.
A voice that doesn’t tremble
when it says
“I am still here.”
And that—
after all the leaving,
all the breaking,
all the becoming—
is enough.
