Amelia James Poetry

I didn’t know that message would be the last.
Just one more silence in a string of almosts.
No explanation.
No goodbye.
Just the quiet click of you
choosing not to answer—
and me,
still hoping for a reply
I knew wouldn’t come.

No note.
No apology.
Just an echo
of everything I thought was sacred
left ringing in a room you set on fire
and walked away from smiling.

That July 9th, the sky didn’t fall,
but I did—
crumbling like scripture in a storm,
screaming into sheets,
losing time,
waiting for a phone that would never light up
With your name again
I begged God for one more word.
Just one.
I swore I’d stop breathing if it made you speak.
But silence doesn’t make deals—
it only sharpens its teeth.

I held grief in my chest like a second heartbeat—
steady, aching, always in tandem a rhythm
I never asked for
but couldn’t unlearn.
The sound of you
where “me” used to be.

They told me to let it go.
Told me Jesus could fix what you broke.
But scripture doesn’t hold when the ghost wears your name
and still got to keep the reputation of a saint-
still got to be the hero in everyone else’s story.

You vanished,
and they called it growth.
Said I was clingy,
while I was clawing for air

I wasn’t asking for another chance.
I was begging—quietly, pathetically—
for you to care enough
to acknowledge what you did.
Just once.
Just long enough
to prove I ever mattered.

I just wanted a witness.
I just wanted a sentence.
Something more than “k.”

You promised forever,
and I memorized your vows like religion,
sacred until they weren’t

I miss the version of me who still believed
in closure.
In kindness.
In being chosen.
In being worth staying for.

I carry the weight you left behind—
the unspoken, the unloved,
the girl sobbing into her pillow
while the world kept turning
like nothing had collapsed.

And still,
somewhere between 3 AM and forgiveness,
I wonder if you remember
that July 9th.
Because I always will.

-Amelia James