I painted his nails hot pink,
called it a joke,
but we both held on
too long.

He hummed my favorite song,
two notes behind,
like catching up
was close enough.

He carried me upstairs once —
said I was light.
I believed him.

The polish chipped.
We didn’t.

Now,
he’s a voice
I scroll past,

and somewhere,
a pair of chipped pink nails
he never scrubbed off