You sat there,
across the room,
but your eyes never left me̶
not once.
I sang with trembling fingers on the strings,
and the chords barely kept up with my heart.
Yet somehow,
you looked at me like
I was made of music.
"I wanna hear you play,"
you said after the song.
"Next time, come to my place.
Weʼll play the piano together."
As if we were building a melody
out of moments
we were too scared to name.
Then he reached for the guitar,
his fingers sure,
his voice too damn familiar.
He sang that song.
The old Jet track we used to scream in the car,
now turned into a lullaby in his throat.
I watched him.
That fucking song.
That voice.
That smile.
It hurt.
Like déjà vu from a dream we never had̶
but somehow lost.
He handed the guitar back,
and I wished he knew.
I wished he knew
what it meant
to be looked at like that
and still left in the silence.