While love is still playing

while love is still playing

you don’t notice it
at first.
it’s never a mugging.
it’s a slow donation.

you give them your friday nights
like spare change.
your friends become
“some other time,”
your solitude becomes
“why are you being weird?”

and you let it.
because it’s warm.
because being wanted
is a kind of heat
that makes you forgive
the smoke.

there are benefits, sure…
you eat actual meals.
somebody texts back.
somebody says your name
like it means something
instead of a punchline.

you start painting your nails again
or trimming your beard.
you start believing
in tomorrow,
that cheap little lie
that keeps the lights on.
and then the trade begins
to feel fair.

you hand over
small pieces of yourself
and they hand you
a reason.
a reason to leave parties early.
a reason to stop writing.
a reason to stop listening
to the quirky songs
that kept you honest.

it’s not evil.
it’s not even intentional.
it’s just the way
two people
start using each other
for shelter.

and shelter is great
until you realize
you’ve been living
inside someone else’s weather.

you catch it in stupid moments:
standing in the grocery aisle
staring at cereal
you don’t even like
because they like it…
and you can’t remember
what you like,

not cleanly,
not without checking
their face in your head.

you laugh differently.
you apologize faster.
you stop saying “no”
like it’s a full sentence
and start saying it
like it’s a negotiation.

the funny part?
nobody calls it sacrifice
while the bed is still warm.
nobody writes essays
about losing themselves
when the sex still works
and the photos still look
like proof.

we only talk about it
when it rots.
when the same compromises
come back wearing masks…
control, resentment,
little slaps made of silence.

when love turns into
a ledger.
that’s when you hear it:
“I gave you everything.”

and you did.
you gave them
the parts of you
that used to argue,
the parts that used to roam.
you made your life smaller
so it could fit
into their hands.

and now those hands
are empty anyway.
now the relationship is going south
like a drunk with a grudge,
and suddenly everyone’s an expert…
your friends, your mother,
some guy with a podcast
and a perfect haircut.

they all say
“don’t lose yourself.”
like it’s advice
and not an autopsy.

but here’s the thing:
you don’t lose yourself
all at once.
you lose yourself
the way a city loses
an old neighborhood…
one new building,
one rent hike,
one “we should be practical,”
until the place you loved
is still called the same name
but nothing in it
recognizes you.

and still…
still…
some nights
you miss the way
being swallowed
felt like peace.

you miss the certainty.
you miss the second heartbeat
in the room.
you miss being someone’s favorite thing
even if it meant
you stopped being yours.

that’s the wire you live on.
that’s the real knife.
because the sweetness is real.
and so is the damage.

and the line between devotion
and disappearance
is thin enough
to cut you
without spilling a drop
until it’s too late

to pretend you’re fine.

so you crawl out
of whatever you became,
fingernails full of “we,”
mouth full of “sorry,”
and you try to remember
your own address.

and it feels pathetic…
learning yourself again
like an ex.

but you do it.
not heroically.
not clean.

you do it the way you do
anything worth doing:
one brutal morning at a time,
with coffee,
with shaking hands,
with the complicated truth
finally allowed
to speak.

because nobody wants
to hear the costs
while the love is still paying.
they only listen
after the bill arrives
and your name
is the one
on the bottom.