When Lightning First Struck
I didn’t just lose someone.
I lost the story written in starlight,
scripted beneath a moonroof,
where silence held possibility.
You didn’t finish it.
And something holy was left—unspoken.
Guilt?
That belongs to you,
your gods,
and the long shadows of karma and murphy.
The reckoning wasn’t about love lost—
but about a love
that should never have been dreamt aloud.
You spoke of forever,
but you were already rehearsing the ending.
A prophecy you fed,
until it bloomed bitter and true.
I mistook your silence for mystery,
your distance for meaning.
You were a pause I turned into a sentence—
and I bled believing.
You took what I offered—
skin warm with trust,
laughter mid-breath,
vulnerability cupped like water.
But not the sanctuary of my soul.
That was never yours to hold.
It has always been guarded,
watched by those who do not sleep.
We unraveled, but the echo lingered
It pressed itself into my ribs.
Still—
I no longer chase sound.
I walk toward stillness.
You didn’t walk the story we began.
You veered off into safer woods.
And I?
I kept walking,
torchless, barefoot,
guided only by my own becoming.
Not blind—
but believing.
You were not the fire.
You were the flicker
that made me crave heat.
We weren’t friends.
We were lightning—immediate,
blinding,
unsustainable.
I had already carved a space
for forever.
But you weren’t built to stay.
My spirit never shattered.
It bowed,
learned,
rose wiser.
I can speak beautiful lies—
but I prefer the sharp edge
of truth.
I remember everything—
not to ache,
but to harvest the lesson.
The goodbye was mine,
because you never gave one.
And yes—
I searched for your obituary.
A part of me needed to see
if you meant it
when you said you’d die without me.
Turns out,
we both kept breathing.
I carried it.
I held it.
And now—
I let it fall like broken glass
from open palms—
cutting, glinting,
refusing to be anything
but what it is.
You were the first lightning strike.
But I am the storm now.
That’s the only truth
that still stands.
With Grace & Ink,
Mai
