A Candle Lit For Your Return

I tell myself the story
the way it used to begin,
before the fractures learned my name,
before doubt spoke louder than you.

If I close my eyes just right,
we are still there,
laughing over nothing,
making forever sound easy.

And I would go back.
God, I would go back.

I would swallow every warning
like bitter medicine I pretend is sweet,
call the cracks “character,”
call the silence “peace.”

I would unlearn the truth
just to relearn your touch.

Because loving you felt like certainty once,
and I am starving for that lie again,
the one where you chose me
without hesitation,
without someone else waiting behind me.

I know what I saw.
I know what you did.
But I would sand down memory itself
until it fits the shape of us again.

If it means I get one more morning
where your name doesn’t hurt,
one more night
where I am not alone in my own life.

Then let me be wrong.

Let me be blind.
Let me be anything
that gets me back to you.

Even if I have to tell myself again:

“This is love.
This is enough.
This is worth it.”