I’d like to think that there is someplace where you never fell out of love with me and out of the orbits we made. And that’s why I still write — for my poems to be that place where words never failed us, where the goodbyes were never said for good, and where I could breathe in your scent at 6 am and know and feel that you were still there; that it wasn’t just another trace you left behind. At least in the poems, I could make you love me still.

At least in the poems, I could undo the fights and stitch our red strings back to each other, and look at you as if I was lost in the sea, and you were made of moon dusts and starlights.

At least in the poems, I could probably make myself enough — make my love enough for you to stay. At least in the poems.

But then again, they’re just poems darling, arranged to look like a happy ending. They’re just poems. And you’re still gone.

You’re still gone.