Between Bruises & Blooms

You keep coming back.

Not loudly.
Not enough
to leave fingerprints
on the glass.

Just enough
to fog it.

A little look here.
Another there.
A quiet stroll
through rooms
you swear
you do not care about.

Funny,
how curiosity
starts looking a lot
like hunger
when it keeps returning
to the same table.

I wonder
what you are hoping
to find—

his name?
your fear?
proof
that the past
is still breathing?

Maybe you want
to know
if I still remember.

Maybe you want
to know
if he does.

Maybe you are waiting
for one line
to finally say
the thing
you are too afraid
to ask.

Keep reading.

The page
does not owe you
an answer.

And neither
do I.