We wrote poems like promises,
paper hearts folded between the lines.
not always together,
but never apart in the ways that matter.

I chase music now,
like I once chased understanding,
and I finally feel found in it.
but there’s still a note missing,
and it sounds a lot like you.

I say I’ve let go,
but my hands never learned how to forget you.
I move forward,
but sometimes I wish you’d catch up,
or maybe I’d slow down.

I don’t want to need you.
But I don’t want to lose you.
And maybe that’s love,
or maybe it’s just what’s left of it.

But you’re still there.
And I’m still me.
And somewhere in that mess
we still link.