The lie we breathe.

I didn't know the shape of joy

until it fled.

Like steam rising from a mug I left untouched

while fumbling with thoughts that never mattered.

I thought there would be more time.

Isn't that the lie we breathe with every sunrise?

I watched it slip–her laughter,

the softness in silence,

the way her eyes cradled my chaos.

I held it like something replaceable,

like the world owed me echoes

of what I had not yet earned.

Now I run.

Not towards, never towards.

Only after,

always after.

Through cold streets that us better

than I do.

I search for scraps of then,

as if memory could rewind flesh,

as if guilt could rebuild hands.

I was foolish–

not in the way children are,

but in the way men are

when they mistake depth for permanence.

I thought the meaning was a given.

I thought love forgave carelessness.

I thought I could just come back

when I was ready

to be whole.

Now I choke on the dust of what once was mine

and everything I reach for–

dissolves.

The taste of her name

cuts my tongue.

The air is heavier

where her voice used to be.

I am living in the after.

And it is quiet.

And it is loud.

And I swear, it is

too late.