I remember the fire, how it made the world small, how the smoke curled over us like a secret. You with that guitar, your voice breaking somewhere between “Thunder Road” and silence. Angelina’s shadow moved through the glow like she could hold the night together with her hands. The stars were too bright that year…or maybe too far…..and we kept mistaking them for things that would fall for us.
Now every memory feels heavier than it should. Her hair smelled like rain, and sometimes her laughter drifts back, uninvited, catching in my chest. I think about packing a bag in the dark, driving until I find a place quiet enough to carry it all.
Mom and Dad are still there, their lives steady and warm, and I wonder if they’d understand this weight I carry, or if they’d shake their heads and tell me to let it go.
The world feels too loud now, too loud to sing. I keep hoping the fire will burn slow enough to make space for what I can’t say, for what I’ve lost without naming it.
If you hear me, let it be in the pause between songs, in the smoke curling over empty seats, in the quiet where the night remembers us.