I touch a cassette label beside you. I finally understand the one who got away.

I see you inside the university radio booth before I prepare my face.

I notice dust warming under red lights clinging to the silence around us.

I recognize a cassette label before I trust your smile.

I remember why I need to know whether we still exist.

I stay as the live microphone opens before your confession.

I let my voice cross the distance first.

I watch your eyes move toward the soundproof hall instead of mine.

I recall your forehead resting against mine after midnight.

I hate how tenderness survives the agreement that ends it.

I refuse another beautiful description of the one who got away.

I feel your silence choose its first casualty.

I fold my fingers around a cassette label beneath the table.

I listen as you describe the life around your answer.

I stop translating after I learn that you kept my old letter unopened.

I feel grief enter before the sentence ends.

I walk to the soundproof hall with your footsteps behind me.

I hear you ask me not to leave yet.

I look up and find your mouth too near mine.

I let hope rise once, against everything I know.

I reach for you inside the university radio booth, but you kept my old letter unopened.