Why would I take you back?
The question lingers longer than the answer ever could.
It echoes in the quiet spaces
you used to fill so easily.
I tell myself we could be better.
Stronger where we once cracked,
wiser where we once rushed,
two people rebuilt from the wreckage
we swore we didn’t create.
We could wipe it clean, couldn’t we?
Lay fresh paint over splintered wood,
call it new, call it whole,
pretend the fractures don’t still ache
when the weight settles in.
I imagine us trying again.
Not as we were,
but as who we could be
if pain really taught us anything
beyond how to endure.
But doubt is a quiet truth.
It doesn’t shout,
it doesn’t beg to be heard.
It just stays,
steady and patient,
asking the questions I avoid.
If I gave you everything this time,
every ounce of effort,
every fragile piece of trust
I managed to gather back together,
would it finally be enough?
Would you look at me
like I was chosen,
not convenient?
Like I was wanted,
not returned to?
Or would I still be
That almost.
That nearly.
That version of love
you learned to live without?
And maybe that’s the answer
I’ve been circling all along.
Not whether we could start again,
but whether I could survive
finding out
that even at my best,
I was still something
you didn’t want to keep.