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.
but you smiled at me
like you didn’t know what it would do
or maybe you did.
and I,
god, 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
in that cold little echo chamber by the river.
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.
