Another route, maybe

Flirted with the idea.

The other one.

But what is that even for?

How many times does the cycle rerun

before I forget why I hated the reruns in the first place?

What’s the price of being wanted—

and why is it still too cheap and too expensive at once?

Is it absence? Or a craving for chaos dressed as clarity?

Do I chase the noise because silence reminds me

of everything I don’t say out loud?

There’s that moment before regret

where it still feels like a good idea—

and sometimes I just want to live there.

Right there.

Before the ruin.

I’m not where I should be.

And I hate saying that out loud, even to myself.

Nothing’s broken, but nothing fits.

And that’s almost worse.

Crossroads, static

Paused at the edge.

Phone in hand.

One text would echo like a ping through water—

I know it’d reach you.

I know you’d come.

Quick.

Clean.

No questions.

But I didn’t.

I walked.

Stopped.

Bought something to sip,

Not for the taste,

but for the time it bought me.

I just needed to not crash into something again.

To slow the reel.

To not be a rerun.