The Last Time I Saw You

I don’t know if it was raining,

but in my head it always is—

water on the glass,

a rhythm against silence.

You turned once,

half-smile,

like you already knew

we’d carry this moment differently—

you with your leaving,

me with my staying.

The streetlight was buzzing,

or maybe that’s just how grief hums—

a low note that never stops.

I told myself I’d forget the details,

but memory is greedy—

it saves the sound of your shoes

on the wet pavement,

the way my throat locked shut

instead of saying

don’t go.

I try to edit it softer—

sunlight,

a joke between us,

something clean to hold.

But the mind doesn’t negotiate.

It brings me back here,

again and again,

to the unfinished sentence,

to the glass that fogs

but never clears.

And every time,

I wonder if you knew

I was memorizing you,

like a thief,

stealing pieces of a moment

I never wanted to keep.