Somewhere I Meant to Stay

I start to say something—

no, not say,

more like reach for it,

the way you might reach

for light

through a moving window.

_______*

I (had words once,

warm as morning breath)

keep them folded

like old receipts in a coat

I can’t throw it away.

_______*

Select “had.” Correct that. Have.

Because some of them

still hum, faintly,

when I touch them.

_______*

I (was walking toward forgetting)

but the air smelled like rain

and that felt too familiar—

like the pause before your name

on my tongue.

_______*

Select “forgetting.” Correct that. Remembering.

It hurts less when I call it that.

_______*

The road hums under my feet—

a quiet, endless rehearsal.

I (am still learning how to go

without gathering pieces as I pass)

watch a leaf hesitate

before falling completely.

_______*

Select “hesitate.” Correct that. Try.

Because maybe even the falling things

want to stay,

for just a heartbeat longer.

_______*

And here I am,

somewhere between

the place I left

and the place I swore I’d never return to—

collecting versions of myself

that never quite finished speaking.

_______*

Select “finished.” Correct that. Stopped.

Because nothing ever really finishes, does it?

***