The heart crumbled
I could not breathe
Cause breathing meant tears free falling
And the ache that grows in my chest
I remember you
That would never remember me
Or think of me in the way I do
And it felt lonely
To be the only one that feels it all so deeply still while you move on just fine
With no trace
Like nothing happened
I’ve received two similar comments this month that I haven’t quite been able to sit well with.
Maybe this is too harsh of an analogy, but it feels like just because I carry a visible burden, it suddenly becomes the only thing people see — as though that one visible weight is enough to define me by lack, flaw, or limitation.
As though a person becomes “disabled” not because of who they are, but because others can no longer see beyond the thing they carry.
And maybe what unsettles me most is how dangerous that assumption can become. Because once people decide for me what I can or cannot carry, it quietly creates an escape route — an out from asking, expecting, or believing I would have shown up otherwise. As though the assumption itself becomes permission to withdraw the ask before I even have the chance to answer it.
Are you the romantic
The things you do they will never know
Like walk a distance in the sun
Just to be near the building they would end up in
Even though you would not be meeting
Sitting at a cafe across the road
Walking pass the block path where the balcony would face
Deliberately finding, ordering, tasting a sandwich which was mentioned in passing
Watching them settle into their cab till you only see the taillights but they do not see you taking it all in
Waiting for the actor you want to take their place before choosing to share the story
Watching the act and falling into that comfort to embrace the closure
At the crossings they became the viewpoints and you are drawn to that energy
Even for a second within the same space just a brush
The many unsaid moments
This quiet ache
Refused to linger in a crowded room
Nor required wine to float
Pulling off another performance
Felt like a removal of another spark or tearing out a page
The tuning fork
Roamed the silent cemetery of text
That was home
Table by the window
Seated at a distance
Watching the rewind
Would listening be different now
There is no return
Nothing but a name
