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You were a poem I had to stop writing ...
Some loves arrive like sonnets—structured, sure, and complete.
Others begin like free verse—wild, mysterious, full of promise.
And then there are those rare ones that feel like poetry in motion—
lines that write themselves on your soul.
But not all poems are meant to be finished.
Some stop mid-sentence, mid-stanza, mid-life.
Not because the words ran out, but because the heart finally did.
And so we whisper to ourselves the truth we hoped we’d never have to say:
“You were a poem I had to stop writing.”
The Ache of Unfinished Sentences
There’s a particular grief in a love that never found its final form.
It’s not the kind of ending marked by betrayal or explosion, but by slow erosion.
It’s the silence after all your words have gone unheard.
The quiet after giving your best pages, and realizing they weren’t being read.
You once imagined writing forever with this person—
chapters of shared joy, plot twists of redemption,
paragraphs of vulnerability,
and footnotes full of grace.
Instead, it ended somewhere between
“almost” and “not quite.”
And that ache?
It lives in the unfinished.
Even Jesus Walked Away from Unfinished Stories
There’s comfort in remembering:
Even Jesus experienced relationships that didn’t resolve cleanly.
In Mark 10, the rich young ruler runs to Him, eager and sincere.
Jesus looks at him, loves him, and offers a way forward.
But the man walks away—too tied to what he’s not ready to release.
And Jesus lets him go.
No chasing. No rewriting.
Just sorrow… and release.
Because even perfect love can’t always make someone stay.
Stopping Isn’t Failure. It’s Faithfulness.
You didn’t stop writing this love because you stopped caring.
You stopped because to continue would’ve meant
betraying your voice,
losing your rhythm,
compromising the truth of the poem you were meant to become.
Letting go doesn’t mean the poem wasn’t beautiful.
It means you’re honoring its ending.
Even if it was a comma instead of a period.
Even if the final line lives only in your heart.
Love Without a Landing Still Had Meaning
Some people were never meant to be your whole story.
They were a stanza, a spark, a season of blooming.
You were never a fool for loving them.
You were brave.
You were present.
You were generous with your ink.
And even if they didn’t value every line,
Heaven did.
God saw every word you wrote in love.
Every time you chose gentleness over pride.
Every time you opened your heart instead of closing it.
Every time you stayed one page longer than was safe.
That was not wasted.
What Happens When the Poem Ends
When you finally stop writing, something strange happens:
You start reading yourself again.
You remember the verses you’d forgotten—
the strength in your soul,
the hope in your voice,
the story God’s still telling through you.
You begin to realize that the pen never left your hand.
You just gave too much of it away.
And now…
you are writing again.
Not about them.
But about you.
You Were a Poem I Had to Stop Writing… But I’m Still a Writer
You may always carry echoes of their lines—
a scent, a song, a sidewalk.
But they no longer get to edit the narrative.
You’ve turned the page.
And there, in the white space of grace,
God is already drafting the next line—
one full of hope,
truth,
and peace.
Because the Author of your life has not finished writing you.
“Being confident of this very thing,
that He who has begun a good work in you
will complete it until the day of Jesus Christ.”
— Philippians 1:6 (NKJV)
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