I keep going back to that concrete gazebo by the river
your converse scuffing against the floor,
me trying to pretend I wasn’t shaking.
we weren’t teenagers. we knew better.
you smiled at me like you didn’t know what it would do
or maybe you did.
I picked the song “Smother Me”
I played it like a confession with a rhythm.
and when it started, you laughed.
said “this is emo as hell.”
but you didn’t leave. you stepped closer.
and suddenly we were moving
slow, uncoordinated
my hands unsure on your waist,
yours barely resting on my shoulders.
our first slow dance and maybe our only one.
awkward and perfect.
I smiled like it was funny
but inside I was bleeding into the music
hoping you’d hear what I wasn’t saying.
you didn’t skip it.
you let it play.
you stayed.
but you didn’t stay.
and now that cold-ass gazebo is still there
solid as ever
haunted by the version of me
who thought your silence was just you needing time
not space.
not distance.
not a door quietly closing.
I still drive by it.
sometimes I park
windows down
just to feel how quiet it gets.
the river still moves.
the crack in the floor’s a little wider.
I never said what the song did
and maybe that’s on me
but you danced anyway.
I hope one day
you hear that song again…
and it ruins your whole night.
