Durul Peker

I was empty, not broken. You gave the silence a flame. Time kept moving and something in me stayed behind. Youth didn’t leave— it dissolved. Love feels like a rumor passed mouth to mouth. I believed it anyway. I always do. Your name vibrates in my pocket— for a moment I exist. Then the light goes out. My body forgets how to rest. On. Off. Static where sleep should be. We keep circling something that sounds like music if you don’t listen too closely. You call it dancing. I call it bleeding slowly. I don’t want the steps. I don’t want the spin. I don’t want to be measured by how much I can take. I was empty, not broken. You gave me fire. Now I miss the dark. @Obessedwithhim🫧 (Based on song; Sick of Dancing) #Durul's perspective “C’mon, Durul,” you pleaded, your voice cracking and sharp enough to make my ears ache. It clung to me, desperate and ugly. Your fingers dug into the sleeve of my leather jacket, tugging like you could anchor me there. I groaned, the sound heavy in my chest, already exhausted. “No,” I said, flat and final. “I’m sick of this—of all of it. Of us, of this relationship, of pretending it still means something.” I ripped my arm free from your grip, the leather creasing under the force. “Just let me go. I don’t want this anymore. It’s time to put this fire out.”