i am bad
for wishing you'd message me
because
you're probably
talking to her.
i've told you before
i'll go
but somehow i come back
i'll go now,
properly
unless

It’s almost been a year—
a year since I last saw you smile,
since I talked with you,
since I heard your voice,

A year of crying,
a year of trying to understand,
a year of sinking into silence and grief—
a year since you breathed.

He writes like dusk— soft,
a little golden,
never asking to be noticed.
Seventeen,
he shapes monsoon melodies  
into paper birds.  
I read between his lines,  
smiling at secrets  
he doesn’t know I keep.