i used to think
you just felt butterflies
for boys --
the funny,
immature,
class clowns.

but now,
i know:
the butterflies don't care
who makes them flutter.
it might be a boy.
it could also be
a girl with a
soft smile
and freckles.

and maybe
girls make them flutter
more than boys.
or maybe...
someone else does.
maybe no one does.

and that's okay.

i saw something
on tiktok today
that would've made
you laugh --
for a moment there,
i almost sent it.

...

then i remembered,
we don't do that
anymore.
not out of hate.
not out of frustration.
not out of spite.
just distance.
just time.
just change.

...

but i still miss you
in the quiet ways
and like a silent burn --
like reaching for a hand
that isn't
there anymore
and one that never
got the chance to say
goodbye.

she was dangerous
and in the most
silent form --
she wasn't fire,
but she was
a glance
that always
stayed
too
long.

most days,
i carry it all
in silence --
it's like a bag
without handles.

...

grief,
expectation,
the weight of being
the one
who doesn't
fall apart
out loud.

...

no one ever
sees it,
but it's heavy
in my spine,
my jaw,
my lungs,
the way i forget
to breathe.

...

but i carry it
because i have to.
becuase letting it go --
letting it all fall
and come crashing down --
feels
worse.

i left behind
a version of me
that night,
at the concert,
on that arena floor --
lighter,
louder,
happier,
and still dancing
in a city
i don't live in.

i never lived there,
but i miss it
like it was home.
like i left something behind --
a version of me
still bundled up
in those hotel sheets,
in the merch line,
and in the way we laughed
way 
too loud
under those
neon blue signs.

it was just a weekend,
but the city held me
like it knew me.
like it didn't care
where i had flown from
as long as i sang
with everything
i had.

now im home.
but im not all here,
i left a version of myself
on that floor
of that arena,
still glowing.
still screaming.
still full
of everything
i want to feel again.

i left a piece of myself
in a city
i don't live in.
and some nights,
it feels like that version
of me
had it better --
louder laughter,
lighter shoulders,
less worry,
a heartbeat
in sync
with the music
she lives for.

and i wonder
if she's still
out there somewhere,
dancing along
to the beat.

make the art you search for
the kind of art
you never find
but always feel.

the kind that
holds your hurt
without asking a million times,
"why?"
the kind that feels
like being seen.

and maybe it's not out there
because it's waiting
for you
to create it.