she is
glorious --
in that golden-hour
type of way.
it looks like
she was dipped
in the kind of light
that you can't touch,
but admire.

i listen intently
as she talks about
boys
like she's reading it
from a script
that fits her mouth
almost too
easily.

and i sit there,
i smile and nod,
trying not to look
at her lips
when she stops
paying attention to
my eyes.

she says im her favourite,
her safest place,
her soul sister even --
and i say..
"me too."
yet it still aches
like a confession
i can't give
to her.
to anyone, really.

she's glorious.
and i love her
in the quietest form --
the one that
lets her go
every day
without thinking about
telling her
i ever wanted to
stay.

i feel
like im
unfinished --
almost like
my life is a story
only half-told
with too many
blank pages
left.

we're not friends exactly,
not really --
but
we're not more
than that either.
there's an awkward inbetween.

you laugh at my jokes
like you care,
and sometimes
on the rare occasion
you text first --
which is just enough
to trap yourself
in my head.

whatever we are,
it isn't nothing.
but it's never
been right
to call it
something more.

and maybe
that's the worst part --
not the part
where i lose you,
but the part
where i
never really
have you
to call
mine.

i used to think
you just felt butterflies
for boys --
the funny,
immature,
class clowns.

but now,
i know:
the butterflies don't care
who makes them flutter.
it might be a boy.
it could also be
a girl with a
soft smile
and freckles.

and maybe
girls make them flutter
more than boys.
or maybe...
someone else does.
maybe no one does.

and that's okay.

i saw something
on tiktok today
that would've made
you laugh --
for a moment there,
i almost sent it.

...

then i remembered,
we don't do that
anymore.
not out of hate.
not out of frustration.
not out of spite.
just distance.
just time.
just change.

...

but i still miss you
in the quiet ways
and like a silent burn --
like reaching for a hand
that isn't
there anymore
and one that never
got the chance to say
goodbye.

she was dangerous
and in the most
silent form --
she wasn't fire,
but she was
a glance
that always
stayed
too
long.

most days,
i carry it all
in silence --
it's like a bag
without handles.

...

grief,
expectation,
the weight of being
the one
who doesn't
fall apart
out loud.

...

no one ever
sees it,
but it's heavy
in my spine,
my jaw,
my lungs,
the way i forget
to breathe.

...

but i carry it
because i have to.
becuase letting it go --
letting it all fall
and come crashing down --
feels
worse.