I remember the bright days like evidence in a glass case.

Borrowed light, museum air, the label reading: do not touch.

Maybe it was a dream. 

Maybe i made it tidy enough to pass inspection.

It doesn’t look real now. 

It looks framed.

The closeness, once a room, reads like a plot i annotated, not a life i lived.

it exists better on paper. the margins know more than my chest does.

i turn pages, the warmth behaves. 

Reality doesn’t.

Those warm hugs that timed out.

The file kept the timestamp, not the heat.

kisses were theory.

Accurate, elegant, unfelt.

They never reached the instrument that measures “safe.”

How to live it again? 

Wrong question.

Happy was a loan with a hidden clock.

It bloomed like a field grown from bones, then closed its petals on cue.

The timer went off,  the room reset., i stayed seated.

Again, were those days a dream? 

I ask because the mirror won’t answer.

I ask because memory edits kinder than breath.

It doesn’t look the same anymore. 

It looks behaved.

The intimacy, once a hallway, now a caption under a photograph:

“Two people, almost touching.” 

I nod like a curator, didn't touch the glass.

The hugs recycle into cold air the second i name them.

The mouth remembers shape, not meaning. mine, especially.

this is not grief. it’s catalog. 

It’s how i keep from spilling.

If you’re looking for crying, you’re early.

If you’re looking for truth, it’s written small at the bottom:

I was there. i did not feel it. 

I wanted to. 

I stayed