How We Became Past Tense

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“No amount of time will ever be enough with you.” 

– the midnight of 1st August, 2025

When you told me that, it didn’t feel like mere romance.
It felt like certainty.
Like longing without fear.
Like desire without calculation.
And I couldn’t believe I deserved something that steady, and unguarded. So I made a quiet promise to myself that I would grow into it. That I would earn it.

There were moments with you that meant the entire world to me. The kind of moments that rearrange a person. The kind that become reference points for what tenderness is supposed to feel like. I hurt more now knowing that I will measure everyone else I ever meet against the softness the moments we shared had.

I miss the way our bodies understood each other before language had the chance to interfere.

How cuddles with you alone could smooth out the sharp edges of a bad day.

How we created an energy that felt like something designed only for us.

I miss the late nights when you’d come over, and time would dissolve into laughter and slow conversation. I miss how hope felt in my chest back then; steady, warm, unquestioned. I miss how present I was with you. How we stepped into each other’s worlds fully, like they were fragile glass-nests only we knew how to rest in.
I have obsessed over the question of what changed. I have replayed us like a film I refuse to let end. Every conversation, every silence, every argument, every soft morning. Searching for a fracture. A clear breaking point. Something I could blame.

But there wasn’t one.

There was no explosion. No betrayal loud enough to point at. No final fight that declared an ending.

There was just… time.

Time passing quietly.

Softly enough that I didn’t notice it taking anything.
Until one day, I felt a little less of your reaching.
A little less of your curiosity.
A little less of your wonder.

And somehow, I was remembering us more than I was living us.

That is the cruelest part.
Not losing our love in a storm, but watching it thin out in time.
Time has a way of doing that. Of turning warmth into memory while you’re still standing in the same room. Of reshaping love without asking permission.

Time has deformed us from a thousand warts of blinding light,
To just a quiet grief of something that once felt eternal,
To becoming just past tense.

#LettersWeNeverSent

Written by

Lus The Poet

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