I hear one honest sentence at my cousin's winter wedding. I cannot return to letting go unchanged.

I enter my cousin's winter wedding and my body recognizes you first.

I breathe in orange peel and candle wax and lose the sentence I practiced.

I watch you hold a pearl pin from the life we almost kept.

I know this meeting matters because I need to close the door without hating you.

I let it happen when the couples dance begins and you take another hand.

I say your name and watch your shoulders soften.

I notice your answer arrive in your hands before your mouth.

I remember how quietly you once learned my body.

I feel warmth become evidence without becoming an answer.

I name letting go before hope can rename it.

I hear you begin with my favorite version of my name.

I let a pearl pin hold the warmth I cannot.

I let your explanation finish without rescuing it.

I finally hear that you ask me to keep one key.

I keep my face still while my chest loses its balance.

I reach the empty coatroom before my composure does.

I stop when you say there is one truth left.

I face you with only one handspan between us.

I wait for the sentence that could change the meaning of tonight.

I reach for you inside my cousin's winter wedding, but you ask me to keep one key.