I Still Think About You

I still think about you.

More than I should.

Less than I used to.

I guess that’s progress.

You show up

in stupid places—

songs I didn’t choose,

roads I’ve driven

a hundred times,

the middle of conversations

that have absolutely

nothing to do with you.

And suddenly

there you are.

Not really.

Just the version of you

my memory refuses

to throw away.

Sometimes I wonder

if you think about me too.

If my name ever crosses

your mind unexpectedly.

If you ever reach

for your phone

before remembering

we don’t do that anymore.

I hate wondering.

Because wondering

is just hope

wearing clothes

it thinks I won’t recognize.

And I recognize it.

Every fucking time.

The truth is,

I don’t even know

what I want from you anymore.

I don’t know

if I’d come back.

I don’t know

if I’d answer.

I don’t know

if hearing your voice

would heal something

or tear open everything

I’ve worked so hard

to close.

I only know

that I still think about you.

And maybe that’s allowed.

Maybe moving on

doesn’t mean forgetting.

Maybe someone can matter

without belonging

in your life anymore.

Maybe I can miss you

without reaching for you.

Love what happened

without asking

for it to happen again.

Remember you

without turning the memory

into an invitation.

So yes—

I still think about you.

Sometimes softly.

Sometimes angrily.

Sometimes with an ache

I can’t quite explain.

But I don’t mistake

thinking about you

for needing you anymore.

And maybe that’s

how I know

I’m finally letting go—

you still cross my mind,

but you don’t get

to take me with you.