The Space between my Hands

In between of hanging on or letting go. How do I decide?

The Space Between My Hands

I am standing in the doorway of a goodbye
that never quite closes.
One hand loosens its grip,
the other still knows the shape of you
by muscle memory alone.

Letting go sounds brave
when people say it out loud—
like a clean cut,
like freedom.
But no one talks about this pause,
this suspended breath
where love hasn’t left
and hope hasn’t learned how to die.

I tell myself I’m ready.
Then a song, a smell, a quiet moment
proves I’m still here,
holding onto ghosts
that feel warmer than reality.

I don’t chase you anymore,
but I don’t release you either.
I fold you carefully into my thoughts,
like something fragile
I’m not ready to break.

They say healing is choosing yourself,
but what if choosing myself
still includes you?
What if strength looks like trembling
and staying honest about it?

So I linger in this space—
between open fingers and clenched fists,
between what was
and what might never be again.

Not because I’m weak,
but because love doesn’t disappear on command.
It fades the way light does at dusk—
slow, unsure,
reluctant to leave the sky.

And maybe one day
my hands will finally rest empty.
But tonight,
they’re still learning
how to let go
without pretending
they don’t still ache to hold on.