lawyer.
That was one word you gave me.
artist.
Another.
starving.
I never did get that right.
And isn’t that what is?
The things left unfinished,
pieces waiting to be assembled,
meaning scattered across conversations—
as if something whole could still come of
no matter. You gave me just enough
to build the rest
is where I exist. Did you think that by returning,
you could leave unchanged
If I speak your fears aloud,
do they still belong to you?
Or do they live here now—
somewhere between my words and yours,
where memory becomes reflection,
and reflection
slips into reality.