we used to be
a language no one else spoke
half-finished sentences
and knowing glances
that stitched the silence shut

we used to be
hands finding hands in the dark
like it was instinct
like the night was only a curtain
and not a distance

back then
laughter lived easy in our mouths
and the future felt small enough
to hold between us
something we could fold
and tuck into a back pocket

now memory does the touching
and I trace the outline
of who we were
like a scar that doesn’t ache
but never disappears
we used to be fire
without thinking of ash