I keep checking
the places happiness once sat,
like a pocket
I’ve already turned inside out.
The bench is still there.
The streetlight still hums.
The ocean still returns.
Everything except what I long for.
So I stop looking back.
Because happiness never waits
where it was broken.
It only lives
in the direction
you finally face.
We met like passengers
assigned to the same row
close enough to share armrests,
not a destination.
We lie inches apart,
faces turned from one another,
like two commas in the same sentence
that never connect.
The walls utter gossip at night.
They watch new women pass,
different steps, new perfumes,
claiming corners they'll never own.
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