some nights, i miss people who are still alive.

we pass like cars, same road, different drive.

you meet new people, they make you hurt less,

i tell myself that’s fine, it’s for the best.

 

you say you’re busy, and so am i,

our messages thin out and slowly die.

we both pretend the distance feels okay,

but verdigris grows in what we didn’t say.

 

we don’t argue, there’s nothing to repair,

just musty residue hanging in the air.

i keep your name where old habits remain,

not sharp enough to hurt, not gone enough to complain.

 

i scroll past updates, note about the change,

new jokes, new circles, slightly out of range.

nothing too much, nothing to revive,

just some nights missing people still alive.

 

although you’re gone, a tourist in another square,

i notice your absence in every empty chair.

an old phone number in my brown book,

i pass it by, though i know you won’t look.

 

i’ve learned the value of keeping something mine,

even if it means standing alone in line.

because when you have almost nothing, you risk it all,

but when you have yourself, you can survive the fall.

 

i sit here asking questions to the night,

knowing the dark won’t set a single thing right.

i see you in photos, angles i wouldn’t choose,

your smile shaped by people i’ll never meet, or lose.

 

i’ll have to admit that some nights, that’s all it really is,

small spaces left where closeness used to exist,

you’ve moved on steady, found a clearer sky,

and i guess that’s progress, even if i cry.