If checking my phone for messages from you
were an Olympic sport,
then, dear, I’d be a gold medalist.
Thumb calloused, eyes trained
to catch the faintest flicker of your name,
heart sprinting at every vibration
like a gunshot start I never learned to ignore.
I’d stand on a podium of sleepless nights,
anthem played in the quiet hum of longing,
waving to a crowd of unread thoughts
I never sent.
And if my feelings were measurable,
timed, weighed, judged,
they’d break records no one would want to hold.
Too heavy for silver,
too restless for bronze,
they would ache in first place,
undisputed,
unreturned.
Because loving you
was never a fair competition.
I trained for a lifetime
while you never showed up to the event.