Friendships: What We Were, What We Are, What Remains
A Triptych in Three Voices.
The Soul Behind the Shattered Pane: A Villanelle of Regret
I wrote you once behind a shattered pane,
Not love, but something gentler, more profound.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
We shared a world no others could explain—
A glance, a joke, a truth without a sound.
I wrote you once behind a shattered pane.
You held my storms, I sheltered all your rain,
But time grew sharp, and pride became the hound.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
I let you go—no, worse, I caused the pain,
And watched you fall without a cry or sound.
I wrote you once behind a shattered pane.
Now every mirror shows your face again,
A friendship buried, never truly drowned.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
If I could speak, I’d call you back by name—
But ghosts don’t answer once they’ve gone to ground.
I wrote you once behind a shattered pane.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
II. The Soul Beyond the Shattered Pane; A Villanelle in Reply
I heard you once behind the shattered pane,
Your voice a ghost I swore I’d never heed.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
You left me with the hollow and the blame,
A wound disguised as distance, dressed as need.
I heard you once behind the shattered pane.
You called it love, but friendship wore the chain—
A bond you broke the moment it could bleed.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
I raged, I wept, I cursed your name in vain,
Then buried it beneath the growing weed.
I heard you once behind the shattered pane.
But time, that thief, has softened my disdain,
And now I ache for what we used to be.
The ink was blood, the silence was the stain.
So, if you meant it—if you feel the same—
Then speak, and I might answer. I might see.
I heard you once behind the shattered pane.
The ink was blood; the silence was the stain.
III. The Letter I Never Sent: A First-Person Reckoning
I read your words again tonight.
Not aloud—just in my head, where they echo softer.
You always knew how to make silence feel like a presence.
Even now, you do.
I want to write back.
I want to say I’m sorry.
But I don’t know if I’m sorry for what I did
or for what I lost
or for how long it took me to admit either.
You said you heard me.
But did you hear the part where I broke?
The part where I pushed you away
because I didn’t know how to hold something so rare
without crushing it?
You were my safe place.
And I set fire to it.
I told myself you’d moved on.
That you didn’t need me.
That maybe you never did.
But I needed you.
And I still do, sometimes, in the quiet.
I think about reaching out.
I imagine your voice—
not angry, not warm, just… distant.
And that’s what stops me.
Not the thought that you hate me,
but the thought that you don’t feel anything at all.
Still…
If you ever knock—
if you ever whisper my name again—
I’ll answer.
Maybe not right away.
Maybe not with grace.
But I’ll answer.
Because the door was never locked.
Just closed.
And the light beneath it
never quite went out.
