I hate her
because she's heard your voice,
felt your soul,

but I keep the player on repeat,
listening to long-lost cadences —
pretending they're for me,
remembering when they were.

I hate you
because you've left me
clinging to the smallest link,

but I keep on reading,
flipping pages —
waiting for that perfect phrase,
that flash of recognition.

I hate myself
because I can't let go,
move on,

because I wasn't good enough,
for being fool enough to believe I was,
or might be,
someday...

but I keep on breathing,
dreaming,
of scrub pines
and red rocks (three of them) —

and that voice on my player,
on repeat.

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