I wonder if Taylor Swift
reads poems like mine,
filled with guys who are
forever running away,
or standing still
in the shadow of the last word.

I wonder if Taylor Swift has ever been
the last person at the party,
waiting for someone to notice the empty room,
wondering when she stepped out of her heels,
and who stuffed them in their bag,
as she left the night behind like an art thief,
taking all the pieces no one thought they'd miss
until they’re staring at a wall of empty frames.

I wonder if Taylor Swift has ever looked at a stranger and thought,
‘You are the version of me that never had to sing
about all the things I can’t say aloud—
the version that’s free of the weight
of every note I write.’

Somewhere, in a parallel universe,
I hand her my heart—
heavy with everything we never spoke,
but she doesn’t need to read it,
because in this universe,
we’ve already lived the words.

Somewhere, she writes me back,
telling me that love
is just a song
we forgot to finish,
and maybe, in the silence,
we’ll finally hear it echo between us,
looping in a way that sounds
like both a beginning and an ending.