You say you’re just waiting,
waiting for me
to give you the word,
to open the door
so you can run back into my arms again,
back to the place you still call home.
But what if we fail again?
What if four years apart
was just distance,
not growth,
not change,
not enough?
I love you.
I always have.
I probably always will.
And I know you love me,
you know me too well not to.
You know my heart,
my habits,
my breaking points.
But we had twelve years
to get it right.
Twelve years of trying,
of bending,
of holding on
until we finally broke
into courtrooms,
into silence,
into separate states.
I miss you.
God, I miss you…
in the quiet moments,
in the loud ones too.
But we can’t ruin each other again.
Last time, we barely made it out alive.
So tell me,
what’s different now?
Are you better?
Am I?
Did we actually learn anything
from losing everything?
Or are we just two people
who remember the good
louder than the truth?
