One Way Road

Lately it feels like driving the wrong way

on a one-way road,

and still pretending

there’s time to slow.

Every day I think about reaching again,

not just reaching

but trying to mend

what I still call “us,”

like it’s something that bends

but never ends.

And I wonder,

in the space between pause and reply,

if waiting is just another way

to say goodbye.

If I wait long enough,

will you ever reach back?

Or is silence just the shape

that answers lack?

Some days it feels like

everything I do

has nowhere to land.

Like words written in sand

for a tide that won’t understand.

What is the use of these words

if they never meet your eyes?

What is the use of my favorite perfume

if it only lives and dies

in empty rooms

you’ll never walk into?

Why do I smile,

soft and automatic,

if there’s no one left

to call it magic?

Even the smallest things

start to lose their name

when there’s no witness

to claim the same.

And I keep asking myself

in quieter and quieter tone

am I still speaking to you,

or just speaking alone?

Maybe that’s the truth

I keep trying to outrun.

It didn’t end all at once.

It just stopped being done

by anyone but one.