In Three Lives

If I had three lives,  
I'd lose you in two.  
In the first, I'd let you slip away,  
too wrapped in my own fumbling,  
too scared of the weight of your eyes.  
I'd watch you disappear down crowded streets,  
lost in the noise of strangers,  
while I stayed behind,  
tongue tied and wishing  
I knew how to call you back.

In the second life,  
I’d have you, but barely.  
We’d sit in rooms filled with the silence  
that settles when love is half-broken.  
You’d smile, I’d pretend not to notice  
how tired it looked,  
and we’d tell ourselves it’s enough  
to stay this close.  
But every time you left the room,  
you’d take a piece of me with you.  
Until one day there’s nothing left but echoes.

In the last life,  
I’d be alone,  
sitting in a room too quiet,  
writing you into the spaces  
where my heart used to be.  
I’d find traces of you in strangers,  
a laugh too familiar,  
a gaze too heavy,  
and I’d wonder if in another life  
we could’ve been more.  
But I’d keep writing,  
because even if I never had you,  
I’d still carry the ache  
of every love I never touched.