Memoirs of my boulevard

We move with trembling hands, to promise where the road will end. Still, we step on stones slick with memory, no lantern bright enough through shadows that whisper of fear, hearts beating louder than the silence. Hope is a fragile flame, but even the smallest spark teaches our eyes to see. So we lean into the unseen, trusting the pulse between us, trusting that every stumble is a way forward, not back. And when the night stretches endless, we remember the stars are only found, by those willing to walk through the dark.

That night, the room was loud with borrowed tunes, voices cracking over someone else’s words. You held the mic, half-smiling, off-key, brave— while I refused, too sure there’d be more time. A month later, silence. No last chorus, no drunken vow belted into static. Just the echo of a laugh I didn’t join, a door I didn’t know was closing then. Maybe I should’ve grabbed the mic, should’ve sung something sad and true— something that would’ve made you turn, something to say  I see the end coming too. Or maybe I should’ve stayed home, let the party spin on without me, so now I wouldn’t have to untangle which part was the beginning of the end, and which part was just a Tuesday.

A breath between the rushing noise, A hush beneath the storm’s own voice— Not in the quiet I had sought, But in the fray, my peace was caught.

Dear You, I’m writing this note with a suitcase by the door, Packed with the memories I can’t carry anymore. Each shirt still smells like the love we once knew, But I guess even good things outgrow their glue. I folded the laughter, the late-night talks too, Tucked them in corners, like I used to with you. But the zipper won’t close—there’s too much inside, Like the way your name echoes where my heart once lied. I thought love was staying, weathering the storm, But sometimes it’s leaving so we both can reform. So I’ll take this suitcase, this weight off the floor, And learn how to miss you a little bit more. Goodbye, Me

A brief hello, a hollow sound, The warmth we knew is nowhere found. The spark that lit my heart aflame Is now just ash—no love, no name. Yet still my thoughts drift back to you, To shades of what I thought I knew. But time has stripped the gold away, Leaving just dust of yesterday. So here’s goodbye, not said in pain, Just quiet truth—we’re not the same. The past is gone, the ties undone, I’ll walk ahead, my heart moves on.

We orbit in fluorescent glow, two ghosts with coffee cups in hand, our dialogue a careful script— the project , the deadline , the plan . You laugh (a sound like breaking glass), I mirror back the hollow tone. The conference room is far too warm— or is it just my blood alone? We parse the past in subtext now: "Remember when…" means I still do. "You look well" means I'm not. The printer hums, and I count tiles— anything to outrun the thought of how your fingers once knew mine now highlighting separate lines. The workday ends. We pack our things. You say we'll "sync again next week." I nod. The wound, though neatly dressed, still weeps beneath this polished speech.

I wandered deep into your eyes, A maze of stars and hidden lies. Your touch, a flame both fierce and cold, Your words, a map I couldn’t hold. Adrift, I search for what was true, A love that binds, a path to you. But shadows linger, hearts betray— I’m lost in love, a castaway.