in between downward dogs,
my phone buzzes —
again.
and again.

for fifteen whole minutes,
i leave you unread.

you’re drunk, smitten,
with someone i know,
someone you spotted
at a gig.

you send a live-feed
of your spiralling heart,
ask what to say,
if the moment does come.

i tell you to try.
say hi for me.
talk about music,
the crowd, the energy,
the way the incandescence,
blurry but kind,
makes them look soft
in that lavender light.

and you do.
of course you do.
you take a leap of faith,
while i sit here
in silence,
finding a hundred ways
to rehearse what my heart would
but my mouth will never say.

he keeps pushing me.
telling me
to take a chance.
have an interview
with his ops,
who would love me,
by the way.

and since i’m leaving,
why not now,
especially,
that him and the company
are definitely my thing.

it’s my decision, he said.

i hate that he’s right.
i hate it so much.
and i hate him
for asking me
what’s the hold-up.

what a joke.

the hold-up.

it’s you.
i’m wasting my energy
thinking about this.

it’s you, holding me back.
it’s the thought of us
being at the same place,
in the same room
for longer
than ten seconds,
holding me back.

it’s my heart,
my mind at last,
every living cell
in my body
holding me back,
fighting fantasies,
thoughts
that carelessly run
through my head
as i play out what happens.
it’s my instinct of fear
holding me back.

i don’t want
near your fire again.
hand myself over
on a silver platter,
and say,
‘do whatever you can.
my very core is
in your hands’.

you should know better
than ask
what’s holding me back.
i’m fighting my feelings
with everything i have.

go, and get yourself burned
like i did,
when you have the chance.

he always asked for permission.
not like a formality —
not the way someone asks
after they’ve already decided.
but like he meant it.
like my no
wouldn’t make him flinch.

and every time,
i said yes.
and felt his hands
move like they’d just been
gifted a map —
not to conquer,
but to understand.

even when his fingers slipped
under the hem of my shirt,
found the small of my back —
he paused.
and gave me a chance
to say no. it’s enough.

even when his hand
brushed against my bra strap,
barely there —
he whispered sorry,
as if the air between us
deserved an apology.

i didn’t ask,
if i could touch you
further up.

and that —
that’s what i remember.

not the way he kissed me.
not the taste of that night.
but the way his respect
intoxicated my mind.

looking back,
i think that was the moment
he opened me up,
let my feelings spill,
whilst keeping his own still.
and god.
i loved him for that.

voices emerged from the garden
as i walked past the stairs.
i didn’t know what i was doing —
intruding
on something private,
breaking the atmosphere
of an afternoon meant
for softness, and quiet.

i overheard my neighbour ask
when i’m coming home again.
my mother, oblivious,
said i’d be here for christmas.

she stopped dead
in her tracks
as my voice came out —
hi.
too loud.

no one said a word.
she looked at my father,
about to cry.
our neighbours glanced
at each other,
then rose from their chairs.

a dog, i realised,
was licking my hand.

surprise.

i notice
every little thing
he does.

his hand on my waist
as he slips past.
fingers grazing skin
when we both lean
against the pole.
our eyes meet,
as i hand him
the word
he was reaching for.

the other day
he gave me a side-hug.
stroked my back,
slid to my arm,
and i forgot
how to breathe.

then i missed my bus,
so we could talk,
just a bit longer.
longer
than we should have.

when i finally left,
i melted into him
without thinking.

i felt horrified,
almost betrayed.
because next time
i might kiss him
if my mind can’t
hold the reins.

every thought of him
is a slip toward the rim,
and i’m falling.
with hands tied.
i’m falling in love with him.

i asked her—
of all people—
if you’d ever said
anything about me.

i knew you wouldn’t.
you don’t hand
your secrets to anyone.

but she said the way
you look at me
is evidence enough.

she questioned
why i haven’t told you.

maybe you’d stay.
maybe you would.

but i could never
make you choose
between your dreams
and your chance with me,
only to watch us
fall through.

i’m sick to death
of crying my eyes out,
pretending i’m happy.

i’m sick of the monotone
cycle of work—
made worse
from never resting,

from working
on holiday,
in another country,
when i should’ve been free.

i’m becoming no one.

i wanted to give you
enough time
to replace me – good luck,
but somehow
i underestimated
how much i had left
in my emotional tank.

three and a half years
was the greatest opportunity.
finally belonging
to a family that cared.

let that mean something.
right?
all due respect.