Nothing makes me happier than her—
the way her name feels
like a sunrise pressed into my chest,
how her laugh
sounded like something I used to pray for
before I knew how to put it into words.

And nothing makes me sadder than her—
the way she became
a recurring character in poems
that were supposed to be about healing,
how every metaphor I write
still bends toward her
like sunflowers desperate for closure.

I’ve written about her
so many times
my pen starts trembling
before I even touch the page.
Not from fear—
from recognition.
From the muscle memory
of heartbreak dressed as hope.

This is me,
venting poems
like cracked windows in a house
filled with smoke.
I say I’m letting go,
but each stanza
still smells like her perfume.

It’s exhausting,
how someone who was never mine
still occupies every line
like a landlord of my language.

She is the only poem
I’ve ever tried to burn
that still recites itself
from the ashes.

And maybe this is what love is
when it goes unanswered—
a loop,
a bruise that bruises again
every time I call it beautiful.