Remember the way you’d fold into corners,
curling like leaves just to feel
the warmth of your own breathing,
the small life you made for yourself in that space—
a fortress of playing records, and studying, and honey lattes
hands reaching for corners to make a home.

That little room, those early hours,
you were everything and everyone to yourself
but in your marrow pulsed a gentler pulse,
one that said, I have always known heartbreak.
It sang in the spaces between your breaths,
beneath your olive skin, under your flecked flesh.

Sometimes I dial your number and can’t speak
because I am here, and you are there,
separated only by years and questions, but sprawled on familiar floors—
playing records, studying, sipping honey lattes,
acquainted by heartbreak.
A little bruised, but softer for it.

There are times I wish we’d live separate lives, ask nothing, and live,
but you fashioned my path, like clay in willing hands.
So, dear self, hold on to that little room—those honey lattes,
the records that spin our stories into the air,
and every loss, a lesson carved in lines of courage—
as we continue through life—steady, hand in hand.