I Don't Reread Us Anymore
I Don't Reread Us Anymore
I don't reread us anymore—
those lines carved in late night silence,
tender with the ache of wanting
what was never mine to hold.
There was a time I drank your crumbs
like wine,
made altars out of absence,
wrote sonnets for your maybe.
But I have outgrown
the girl who whispered, pick me,
even when the echo came back
with someone else’s name.
I don’t chase ghosts now.
I don’t haunt old threads
looking for the version of me
that begged to stay
while you kept walking away.
She was soft and small,
full of hope and hollow reasons.
But she isn’t here anymore.
I buried her with the “what-ifs”
and bloomed anyway.
So no,
I don’t reread us anymore.
Some stories are better left
on the shelf they burned through.
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