Muscle Memory

I almost called you today.


Not because I thought you would answer,


but because something happened,


and my first instinct was to tell you.


Like muscle memory.


Like the way you breathe without thinking.

But I didn’t call,

Because I remembered what happened last time I did,

and I couldn’t put myself through that again.

Because I’m not ready

to be met with more silence.

And because that’s a privilege I no longer have.

You see, my mind keeps reminding me,


over and over,


that things are over.


But my heart—


my stubborn, reckless heart—


refuses to listen.


It doesn’t want to.


It’s still waiting by the door,


ears perked for footsteps it may never hear again.

I go back and forth with it every day,


like arguing with a child who only knows what it wants


and nothing of the cost.


I tell it,


for our own sake,


we have to face the truth:


you might not come back.

And my foolish heart smiles in that way it does,


pointing to the word “might”


as if it were a lifeline.


Might means maybe,


and maybe means hope,


and hope—


even when it’s poisoned—


is still hope.

But how do I make it see


that clinging to that tiny, frayed thread called

hope


is the very thing
that’s killing us?

~KC