Mía fue, como fueron
míos sus besos;
mía, como rosas y versos.

Mía, nunca fue, pero
suyo todavía soy.

Mía, ya no es, lo sé; pero
suyo seré, tal vez
por siempre, o simplemente por hoy.

Is it better to have loved and lost

than to have never loved at all?

Well—you tell me.

Every time I see that face,

I wish I could turn you back into a stranger—
so the sting in my chest could fade

back into ignorant bliss,

unbeknownst to the pain of love.

When I look at you I see
the boy I told,

“I could never be loved,”

who smiled and swore
he could see the love that exudes
from the cracks of my soul
,
What beautiful words

that once lit up my heart,
now make it scorch,

and burn.

But even through all that...

I still miss you.

And I miss you that little bit more

when our song plays on the radio,

and when I watch our favourite movie—

again and again.

It’s the third time this month
that I’m listening to your voice note
you know, the one before our first date
I mouth the last words with a sting in my eyes
‘see you tomorrow my love.’

I say,
I hate you.

So why do I still feel sad

it’s over?

So please tell me,
because I still don’t know
is it better to have loved and lost
than to have never loved at all?

You gave up on me. And I like to believe it wasn’t because the love disappeared, but because holding on asked too much of you. It’s hard to grasp, the way you let go of a heart that still beat for you, even after yours had stopped echoing back. I loved you deeply, with an ache that felt almost otherworldly in the quiet moments, rare, once-in-a-lifetime kind of love, the kind that slips away if not held carefully. I loved you in ways that didn’t show in daylight. In the silent sacrifices, the unspoken words, the meals laced with hope. Even when the softness left your eyes. Even when your smiles had to be forced. Even when the distance made your hands forget the feel of my skin. You gave up on me, even when I still saw forever in the outline of you. Even when I still dreamed dreams that had your name folded into every page. I never asked for perfection. I just wanted you to stay. To fight, even when it hurt. To meet me in the thick of the pain, where love could still be stronger than the fear. But maybe love isn’t always enough, especially when one heart stumbles before it reaches the ground. Still, I’ll carry your name quietly in the back of my mind. Not with bitterness. Not with regret. Just with a love that never found its ending.

I keep pretending that you don’t want me,

Because that would be a reason to stay.

So if I find a reason to leave, I’ll be gone

By golden hour, without a message or note,

Without even any goodbyes.

A small, reluctant smile forms on your lips;
small because there are no smiles without the guilt
that comes from being the only flower in a field of weeds.

I left an earring on your nightstand
like a dare,
like a dog whistle only I could hear,
like a lie I could almost live with,
like a warning you didn’t read.

You wrote me like you were killing time.
I let you.
I was tired—
tired of being the intermission
between things you actually wanted,
tired of holding out my hands
just to catch the sound of you leaving.

It was raining the next day.
Of course it was raining.
The whole city smelled like last chances
wrung out in the gutter,
like a bouquet dropped
when someone realized it wouldn’t change anything,

You said,
"Take care of yourself."
And I did—
by breaking every mirror
that still showed me your mouth,
by smashing every reflection
that looked like hope.

There's a version of me
still waiting at that train station—
wearing the wrong jacket,
gripping the wrong book,
mistaking longing for directions,
carrying promises like ballast.
I'll know it's you
by the way my spine recognizes the disaster
before my eyes do.

I hope she never learns.
I hope she keeps looking up every time the wind shifts.
I hope she believes in arrivals.
Even when no one steps off.

Every day on this train station,
I stand and wait for confirmation.
She's standing on the other side,
and lets her hair out in a glide.

Shadows spilling on the platform,
wind is blowing in my face.
Number 23 incoming,
she is getting on the train.

And as I stand on this train station,
she turns around in confirmation.
The train doors close, I wave goodbye.
We'll see each other in no time.

The air feels nice, the station – empty,
next train is scheduled, one of many.
A windy summer afternoon,
it's cool, it's quiet, it goes too soon.