Remember when you called me your muse?
How I blushed, how you thought I was pretty,
a mirror of your words,
reflecting your longing back at you.
I see it now.

Now, I’m the one who carries that weight,
your image in my mind,
repeating over and over like a record skipping.
And I understand,
the beauty, the burden,
the heartbreak we circle back to,
over and over.
I’m sorry, darlin’,
for the ache I gave you then.

Everything is circular, isn’t it?
We’re just echoes,
tangled in the loop.
But this time,
maybe we’ll find a new rhythm.