Seven Years, Twice Unlucky

Pattern of two failed relationship

They say
seven years is a cycle,
a lucky number,
a turning of fate.
But I have watched
two stories unravel
just before the seventh ring—
each one promising,
each one folding itself
before the light.

The first—
soft mornings
in a sunlit kitchen,
coffee shared in chipped mugs,
laughter echoing off old walls.
I felt safe,
but guilt crept in quietly—
the sense that I was failing
to hold together what mattered,
words left unsaid
gathering like dust in corners.
Love loosened
like threads pulled from a favorite sweater,
and I tried to speak,
but my feelings tangled,
sometimes lost even to myself.
The unraveling came
before I understood
what was slipping away.

The second—
late nights on city rooftops,
the hum of traffic below,
plans whispered into the dark.
We chased dreams together,
but confusion settled in—
arguments looping,
questions with no answers,
my voice a ripple
against a closed door.
Each memory tugged,
each misunderstanding a fray,
until the fabric of us
came apart in gentle persistence.

Twice, I watched us come undone,
not in a single break,
but in the slow, persistent
unraveling
of what once held us close.
Discussions circled,
problems hovered,
but the endings came
before I could grasp
what truly broke.

Unresolved,
the stories folded themselves,
leaving me with anniversaries
like stones in my pocket—
each one heavier,
each one a reminder
that luck is not a number,
and seven is only
the shape of goodbye.