You Again

You didn’t knock.

You never did.

You arrived the way certain memories do—

slipping in through something unfinished,

like a door I forgot to close

or maybe never meant to.

It wasn’t your voice at first.

It was the way the air changed,

how something in my chest

paused,

like it recognized a pattern

before I did.

And then—there you were.

Not in front of me, not exactly.

But close enough

that I could feel the outline of you

pressing against my thoughts,

like a shadow that remembered my shape.

I thought I buried you properly.

Folded you into late nights and long drives,

tucked between songs I don’t play anymore,

filed under lessons learned

or something that sounded like closure.

But you came back wrong.

Not the same as before—

your edges softer,

your weight uneven,

like time had handled you carelessly.

Or maybe it was me.

Because I don’t reach for you the same way now.

I don’t unravel.

I don’t mistake the ache for something holy.

I just stand there,

feeling the echo of who I was

when you still had power over me.

And it’s strange—

how something can return

and not belong anymore.

How I can recognize you instantly

but hesitate

like I’ve met you in a life

I no longer live.

You linger, of course.

Things like you always do.

But softer now.

Further.

Like a song I used to love

playing in another room

with the door almost closed.