When We Spoke Again

I did not plan
to hear your name again.
I buried it
in the soil of years,
under promises,
under dust,
under lies
I told myself
to keep breathing.

But fate has claws,
and it dragged you
back into my path.
Your voice
was a foreign language
and still,
my heart translated
every syllable
into pain.

We spoke,
but it wasn’t speaking.
It was ghosts
whispering through us,
it was knives
hidden in every word.
Your laughter
was sharper than grief,
because it reminded me
of what I lost.

I tried to be strong,
to let the silence
carry me,
but your eyes
were a storm
I couldn’t resist.
I wanted to touch you,
to tear you,
to beg you,
to curse you.

Do you know what it feels like
to stand in front of someone
who once carried your soul
and realize
they are no longer yours?

It is death.
It is drowning
while standing on land.
It is fire
without flame.

We both pretended
pretended the years
were kind,
pretended the distance
was mercy,
pretended our wounds
were healed.

But I saw it,
in the twitch of your hands,
in the tremble of your breath.
The truth lived there.
You remembered me,
and you hated
that you did.

I hated it too.
Because forgetting
was survival,
but remembering
was still love.

And so we stood there,
two ruins,
two graves,
two broken promises
wearing flesh,
wondering if silence
was safer
than speaking again.