this saturday,
you were singing.
sparks.
coldplay.
your voice was softer now,
but it still found its way
into places
i never let anyone touch.
you held a cigarette
between your fingers,
careless, familiar—
like nothing in your life
had ever broken.
someone was filming you.
i heard his voice
behind the camera.
gentle.
close.
your husband.
and you laughed at something he said.
not the polite kind.
the real one.
the one i used to think
belonged to me.
i closed the video.
but it was too late.
because suddenly,
i was back in that park.
night air,
cheap streetlights,
your shadow sitting beside mine.
you watched me play
like it meant something.
so i gave you the guitar.
told you to try.
you still had a marlboro
between your lips,
still looked unsure—
but your fingers found the chords
like they'd always lived there.
i remember staring.
not at your hands.
but at you.
how easily
you became part of everything i loved.
and now,
you are.
just not mine.