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I remember the moments
whenever I see your face,
whenever I speak your name,
or when I wander into places
where it felt like you were there.

When you brushed the baby hairs from my cheek
and whispered, "You're worth it."
When you held my hand,
leading us to pray with words,
"Lord, we don’t know why we’re here."

When you sent me verses,
effortlessly sharing encouraging reels,
when you called and told me stories
of how God had moved in your day.

When you knew how to calm me,
your voice, a soothing balm,
leading me away from noon’s harsh sun
so I wouldn’t be scorched by its rays.

When peace came so naturally with you,
and I imagined you as the father of my children,
never giving me cause for doubt or jealousy,
telling me, "You're the most beautiful in my eyes."

The sweetest things are found in the smallest details,
but you gave up so easily,
even after promising to wait,
even after saying you'd never stop praying for me.

But I guess those days are over,
and I have my own regrets.
I was too afraid to let go and choose you,
so you became the man who got away.

I hope you understand how much you meant to me,
how real it all was.
I only wish I had known—
before it was too late.

Is there ever
A day without thinking of you?
The sun gaps of light
Aren’t even bright anymore
I used to
stare at them and
visualize your
beautiful, beautiful face

he presses (deliberate) each button,
soft as a whisper, sharp as a pin,
a smile that cuts, (the blade of him)
& she, unravels / unspools /
into noise.

you always, he says.
you never, he sighs.
his words,
a clever parade,
a firework bloom
of gaslighted skies.

her patience,
a thread—pulled taut, then frayed,
then gone.
and when she speaks (oh, the daring of it),
he shapes her syllables into storms,
ties her anger to the wind—
“see how you are?”
he grins.

she becomes the thunder (his storm, his proof).
her breath, a chaos of no escape,
her voice,
a house he burned down
but still blames
her for the flame.

until she folds her wings
into the cage he built—
silent. quiet. small.
not for lack of fight
but for lack of air.

and still,
his lies bloom sharp (oh, his garden of blame).
his hands, gentle knives,
carve her into someone she doesn’t know.
& he names her crazy,
wraps her in words like straightjackets
until she forgets
her name.

but even now,
her silence waits,
a seed beneath the ash.
her roots will remember—
one day,
she will grow back.