What Comes

She looked at me like the truth was mine to say—

like I could name the stars and they’d stay lit.

And I wanted to. God, I wanted to.

But I only knew how to want, not how to hold.

We weren’t fairy tale perfect,

more like two songs in a thrifted playlist—

clashing at first,

then syncing on a lyric neither of us meant to hear out loud.

She’d laugh like the world had just forgiven itself,

and I’d count my luck in heartbeats,

trying not to spook it.

Because this—this whatever it was—felt borrowed.

Too good.

Like maybe someone else was meant to feel it first.

We learned each other in fragments.

Late night drives that didn’t end in destinations,

hands grazing thighs like slow declarations,

and stories told half-truth, half-hope,

because who really remembers it all clean?

But here’s the twist—

the night she didn’t kiss me.

Didn’t have to.

Just looked at me across a room too loud for meaning

and I knew.

That was the Volta.

That quiet switch,

when love stopped being an idea

and started being the air between two people

who’d never asked to collide

but crashed anyway.

She’s not with me now, not like that.

But I still find her in things:

an unmade bed, a song that hits sideways,

the silence that almost says her name.

And no, I don’t regret a second.

Because some people don’t arrive to stay.

They arrive to show you what staying could feel like.

And if that’s not worth everything—

then I don’t know what is.