White pants, Powder Blue
I don’t remember the weather.
I remember
white pants.
A powder blue shirt.
Light brown hair
holding pieces of blonde
whenever the light found it.
Funny,
how memory edits a person
into colors instead of words.
We walked the same path
for only a moment.
Not together.
Just close enough
to make coincidence
feel intentional.
Then the road split.
But right before distance became permanent,
you stopped,
Just for a second.
Not long enough to prove anything.
But long enough to leave a question behind.
And of course,
I answered it the only way fear knows how.
I kept walking.
Eyes forward.
Hands empty.
Heart louder than my footsteps.
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People always say
you miss one hundred percent
of the shots you don’t take.
They’re wrong.
You don’t miss the shot.
You miss the story
you’ll never get to read.
Some people are unforgettable
because of what happened.
Others —
because nothing did.
Some moments
don’t ask for perfection.
They ask for presence.
A hello.
A smile.
One sentence
strong enough
to interrupt two strangers
before they become
a memory.
Now all I have
is a woman
whose voice
I’ll never know.
A conversation
that exists only
in imagination.
And a reminder
that sometimes
the heaviest thing
a person can carry
is a story
that never began.
