you’re not mine anymore,
but sometimes i forget.
i still turn toward the sound
of your name like instinct,
like how birds are drawn north.

you were saturday mornings and saxophone solos,
the quiet buzz during swim meets,
the boy who held my words
like they were something sacred.

i still see your eyes
in coffee cups and the sun,
still hear your laugh
in the songs i swore
i’d stop listening to.

some loves don’t leave.
and missing you,
it’s a kind of music now.
not always loud.
just always playing.

i used to be a whole person,
but now fragments of me
are in living within
people i don’t call.

my “friends,”
they’re planning a trip,
all joy and noise,
asking me my availability.
i don’t want to go.
they don’t know
i take off my smile at night,
like a soaked-through costume.
they don’t know
the girl in their group chat
is just a mask i wear
so i don’t disappear.
they have never realized
every night i struggle
to make it to morning.

i don’t think i can love you any more.
but i don’t think i can love you anymore.