Through the Fog

Tag: moving on

  • 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.

  • The Weight of Maybe

    Maybe that’s the hardest word

    I know.

    Maybe you loved me.

    Maybe you didn’t.

    Maybe things would’ve worked

    if the timing was different,

    if we were different,

    if life had been kinder.

    Maybe.

    It’s a word

    with no ending.

    A hallway

    that never reaches a door.

    And I’ve spent years there.

    Walking back and forth

    through old conversations,

    old mistakes,

    old versions of events

    trying to find an answer

    hidden somewhere

    inside the wreckage.

    But maybe

    isn’t an answer.

    Maybe

    is the place we go

    when the truth hurts too much.

    The place between acceptance

    and denial.

    The place where hope

    goes when it doesn’t know

    how to die.

    And I’m tired

    of carrying it.

    Tired of giving possibilities

    more power

    than reality.

    Because reality is this—

    some things happened.

    Some things ended.

    Some people left

    without explaining why.

    And no amount of maybe

    will change it.

    So tonight

    I’m setting it down.

    Not because I understand.

    Not because I’m over it.

    But because uncertainty

    is a heavy thing

    to drag through life.

    And I’ve carried it

    long enough.

    Maybe that’s enough.

    Maybe—

    for once—

    I don’t need to know.