maybe if
By some chance we crossed paths again — would I even be allowed to hug you? Or would my arms just hang there, heavy and stupid, while the space between us stayed exactly the same?
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The distance never dies. I still open your Instagram stories like a quiet addiction. Just to see if you’re still breathing in this same town, same streets, same air. You are. And somehow that makes it worse. We’re close enough that our shadows could touch if the light hit right, but our lives keep sliding past each other like strangers who once knew every scar.
November is cruel.
It always brings you back — every soft memory, every almost, every night that still sits under my ribs.
I tell myself it’s not the time to romanticize any of it.
I know better.
But it’s classic me: still clinging, still lingering, still treating those memories like they’re sacred instead of just old wounds that refuse to close.
You look even better now.
handsomer in that quiet, effortless way that always fucked me up.
the finest thing I ever got close to.
and I miss you.
not in the soft way people write about.
in the dark, stupid, aching way that keeps me up at night staring at a screen,
wondering how someone so near can feel so completely gone.
