you said it once—
"maybe in four years."
said it like a joke,
coffee in hand,
smoke curling between your fingers.
you didn't know who the fuck the groom would be.
neither did i.
but here we are,
four years later.
i watched your wedding story
on someone else's phone.
muted.
paused on the part where you looked at him
like he invented mornings.
he looked good.
clean smile,
steady hands,
the kind of man who brings you flowers
without needing a reason.
the kind of man who shows up.
he's not me.
and maybe that's the point.
because i wouldn't've worn a suit,
i wouldn't've written vows,
i wouldn't've believed in the goddamn aisle.
until you.
until it was too late to say
"i changed."
so i sat there,
in the same fucking hoodie from the night we talked,
cigarette in hand,
watching your forever
from the sidelines.
you looked happy.
and he looked good.
too good for me to hate,
too good for me to ruin.
so i didn't say anything.
just scrolled away,
lit a cigarette
and whispered,
"he better fucking write you songs."