Unanswered Junes

June sneaks in with warm nights and loud birds,

And my phone remembers you before I do.

Your birthday pops up like a dare

I didn’t agree to keep taking.

I stare at the date

as if a calendar can be a Ouija board.

══

I buy a tiny cake from the corner shop,

the kind you liked—too much frosting,

too soft in the middle.

I eat it with a fork

standing at the sink

because sitting down would feel like a ceremony.

══

I type your name,

add the message,

delete the message.

Repeat like a prayer I’m not sure I believe.

“Hope you’re good” feels pathetic.

“Miss you” feels dangerous.

══

The chat is a museum now,

quiet glass cases of our old jokes.

You used to answer in seconds—

caps lock affection,

five exclamation points

like you were trying to outshine the day.

══

This year I send a simple line,

no sparkles, no guilt,

just a soft knock on a door

I don’t expect to open.

The bubble turns blue and stays that way,

And June keeps moving like nothing happened.