As I flew away from Rome,

something inside me broke.

The further I travelled from Europe,

the further I drifted from you.

They keep telling me our love was an illusion,

but if it was, why does my heart still ache like this?

Why does every path I try to forge lead me back to you?

I am grieving the parts of me that I lost loving you.

I lost my connection to music,

the piano that once made me weep,

the rhythm that made me spin and dance.

With you, I became still, careful,

contained within invisible lines.

I lost the laughter that filled a room,

the stories that spilled from my lips.

I lost the woman who inspired.

I lost the part of me that hosted joy,

gathering people, pouring wine, building warmth.

Instead, I learned to live behind walls,

inside safety disguised as love.

I lost the space to create, to write, to breathe.

You were always there; never leaving, never resting.

And somehow, there was no space for me at all.

I lost my freedom to be messy.

Your perfectionism drew the walls closer,

until I could barely move without feeling

I had done something wrong.

I lost my divine feminine.

Your discomfort with emotion made me shrink inside my own body.

I took on your beliefs about women;

too emotional,

too much,

too soft.

I lost my wildness, my hikes at sunrise,

coffee on the mountain, the dip in unknown waters.

My curiosity was traded for routes mapped on your watch.

There was no room for wonder.

I lost my voice, the one that stood up, spoke truth,

and knew what she needed.

I lost the woman who believed she could build her own dream,

teach, lead, create, because there was always a better way.

your way.

I lost my mornings with God, my gratitude, my stillness.

I lost joy.

The kind that doesn’t need to achieve, that just is.

Because joy was something you never knew how to hold.

I lost trust, in being scared, in being vulnerable.

You took the tender parts of me and twisted them into something to be fixed or managed.

I lost birthdays, holidays, festivals, adventures,

all the colors of celebration washed pale by your discomfort.

I lost my presence around others,

always aware of your tension, your moods, your need for control.

I became the quiet one, the considerate one,

the woman who dimmed her light so no one would break your peace.

And most of all, I lost the ability to be okay with not being okay.

But now, I am beginning to find her again,

the one who laughs too loudly, cries too deeply, moves too freely,

and loves without apology.

I lost her once, but she’s coming home.

I am remembering.