Why I Still Haven't Written It

They were tagged in someone's photo yesterday.

Their arm around someone else. Someone new.

They look happier. That cuts through—

they look like they healed themselves away.

I could write something. I have, a hundred times.

Deleted it. Never sent. Never will send.

They're still not following. This trend

sits in my chest like a string of small crimes.

Someone in the chat asked where they'd been.

No one answered. The silence was mine.

I could have broken it. I could have signed

a message. Back then. Before the sin

of distance, of absence. Before they found

someone else's hand on their shoulder, light.

I'm good at composure. Good at the right

kind of silence. I'm good at the ground

beneath my feet, the words I don't speak,

the stone in my chest. And their happiness

in the photo—someone else to confess

to, someone else who doesn't feel weak

next to them. So I watch. And I don't say.

And I've become very good at not knowing

what I'm capable of, at showing

nothing. At looking away.