i thought i saw you
in the girl with the same fucking eyes.
same tone, same hands on the keys,
same lullaby voice singing something like "Exile."
and i thought—
fuck.
maybe this is it.
maybe i could finally do it right.
leave the mess,
choose the girl who looks like you,
and maybe… just maybe
feel something close to being alive again.
but it took two cigarettes
and three goddamn coffees
to realize she didn't smoke marlboro.
she winced when i lit it.
said it made her dizzy.
you used to steal mine when you ran out.
she played the piano
but never sang Coldplay like you did—
so soft i had to shut the fuck up
just to hear the lyrics fall from your mouth.
she asked me to only call her
when i was "in a good mood."
you picked up my calls when i cried at 2 a.m.
she liked pop songs.
pop fucking songs.
and hated when i rambled about Japan,
or conspiracies,
or fucking Bon Iver's cryptic-ass lyrics.
said i talked too much.
you used to ask for more.
she said she wasn't the kind of girl
who'd waste her time teaching a man
how to be a better one.
but you did.
patiently.
quietly.
always.
and when i tried to love her—
really tried—
i realized she's just Iris in a prettier mask.
typical.
soft.
safe.
forgettable.
and she wasn't you.
never fucking close.