We didn’t break,
we thinned out
into quieter sentences.
Into “we need space,”
into “I still love you,”
into words that meant
stay
but sounded like go.
Love didn’t leave.
It just stepped back,
like warmth
lingering in a seat
after someone stands
proof
someone was there,
and is not
anymore.
I don’t want
the hair tie on my wrist
it’s just a reminder
of how easy I was to keep.
I don’t want the flowers.
They died
doing exactly what I did:
staying too long.
You can walk as far as the map will go.
You can swim all oceans, seas, and lakes.
You can drive every winding road,
Bike each cracked and uneven sidewalk.
She says, I’m scared,
and I don’t lie,
I am too.
Scared in the quiet,
scared of how much
this matters.
Except for one moment:
when I’m beside her.
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