don’t look at me like that —
like I was a side street
you turned down by accident,
and I mistook it for
destination.

you were the kind of quiet
that felt like thunder
in my chest.
I thought it meant something.
you just didn’t speak much.

// my fault //
for dressing your distance
in meaning.
for thinking your shrug
was a secret language
only I understood.

I romanticised
your disinterest —
called it mystery.
called it depth.
called it him just not knowing how to love right.
nah.
you just didn’t.

I
fell
hard
but it wasn’t your arms
that caught me
just pavement
and poetry
and late night overthinking.

I lit fires in your name
and you
brought rain.
not even storm —
just that cold, annoying drizzle
that soaks through slowly
until you realise you’re freezing
and foolish
and alone.

you smiled
like a door half-open.
I walked in
without knocking.
you never asked me to.
but you didn’t tell me to leave, either.

and still—
I won’t blame you.

it’s on me.
on my soft, stupid
wide-open
heart.
always mistaking
hollow rooms
for homes.
text messages
for touch.
affection,
for affection returned.

and love?
for something
that was never
actually
mine.