Autopilot heart

I still say I love you

like I mean it.

And I do.

But it don’t sound the same

when I say it tired.

I hold your hand

without thinking.

Kiss your cheek

like it’s part of the checklist.

Not cold —

just…

repetitive.

I’m here.

You’re here.

But we’ve been here

so long

I forget what new felt like.

Autopilot heart.

Still beating.

Still warm.

Still pulling up the words,

just not with the same fire

that built them.

You call it distance.

I call it rhythm.

You ask me

what I’m thinking about.

I say “nothing.”

But really?

It’s everything

all at once.

Mostly quiet stuff.

Mostly dust.

I still care.

But my brain’s been buffering

since last week.

Love’s still in here.

It’s just in sleep mode.

Still working,

but background only.

Still trying

to catch up

to who I was

when I was good at this.

Autopilot heart.

Not gone.

Just… coasting.

Still in the room.

Still saying the right words.

Still holding on —

even if my grip

got quieter.

I’ve been tired

in a way sleep don’t fix.

Been missing you

while looking right at you.

Not because you’re distant —

because I feel far

from myself.

I’m not empty.

I’m… occupied.

Worn down

by everything that didn’t

make it into our conversations.

The weight I didn’t mention

so you wouldn’t feel it too.

And maybe that’s love,

in its quieter form.

Not loud declarations,

but soft survival.

Saying “I’m here”

when it’d be easier

to drift.

Autopilot heart.

Still checking in.

Still tracing your name

in my head

like muscle memory.

Still calling this home—

even when it echoes.

Maybe I don’t say it

like I used to.

But that doesn’t mean

I don’t feel it

just as much.

I just

don’t always have

the right kind of silence

to show it.