False Recognition

I keep thinking it’s you.

I don’t mean metaphorically.

I mean my breath actually stops

in public places

because someone turns their head

the way you used to

when you were about to say something kind.

My body still believes in you.

That’s the problem.

It reacts before memory can intervene—

before I can remind myself

you chose distance

and called it clarity.

Everywhere I go,

there’s a version of you

just convincing enough

to reopen me.

A wrist.

A cadence.

The space someone leaves beside them

that my heart steps into automatically.

For one cruel second,

I am certain.

Certain you’ve found me again.

Certain you regret it.

Certain this is where the story corrects itself.

And then the moment collapses.

The stranger keeps moving.

And I am left standing

with that familiar, private devastation—

the kind no one notices

because it happens so quietly.

I don’t know how to stop this.

How to teach my nervous system

that love doesn’t come back

just because I’m still loyal to it.

I miss you in places

you’ve never been.

I miss the future

my mind keeps trying to reassemble

out of whoever walks past me.

And I’m so tired

of almost seeing you.