....now look at you, walking around with verses leaking from your chest.

You never planned to feel this deeply.

You used to scoff at people who wrote love poems. The ones who claimed someone’s smile could rearrange their heartbeat. You thought feelings were meant to be managed, not spilled. You stayed composed, careful, untouched.

And then she walked in.

Not loudly. Not dramatically. Just… enough.
Enough to make you remember the sound of your own voice when it trembled.
Enough to make you start writing things you didn’t intend to share.
Enough to make you soft.

Ngozi—her name.
It still sits at the back of your throat like the aftertaste of something sweet you weren’t ready to finish.

You, the one who always kept things in,
Now look at you, walking around with verses leaking from your chest.
You speak in metaphors. You breathe in rhyme. You blink and entire stanzas fall out.

She didn’t just teach you love. She taught you language. The kind that doesn’t need punctuation. The kind that bleeds.

And even though she’s gone, even though she left without saying much, she didn’t walk out unwritten.

There are parts of her folded into you now.
In the way you pause before speaking.
In the way your playlists got quieter.
In the way you stare at skies like they owe you answers.

The moon holds the memory of every word you ever offered it in her name.
It heard your confessions.
The stars still remember how you used to trace her name between them.
And the sun? It saw the way your face lit up when she called you hers.

She’s not a chapter you finished.
She’s a footnote you keep revisiting.
A sentence you keep revising.
A poem you carry in your lungs, even when you’re out of breath.

So, no, you didn’t plan to feel this deeply.
But look at you now.

Leaking verses.
And loving her still.