Canvas

Do you know what it feels like to brush your fingers against a lifeless image and pretend it’s enough? To touch thread instead of skin, to cry into cloth because the man you loved is no longer made of bone and breath? It’s rage, not just grief. Because he deserved more. More than a silent death, more than a blurred photo, more than a world that kept spinning while his heart stopped. They tell me to heal. To breathe. To let go. But how dare they? I don’t want peace. Not when peace means forgetting how it felt to see him laugh, to hear his footsteps, to know he was somewhere out there—alive. Let this pain carve itself into my ribs. Let it scream in every quiet room. Because if I ever stop hurting, it means the world won. And he becomes just fabric. But he was so much more. And I will not go gentle into a life where his absence is something I’m supposed to accept.