Deja Vu (I Still Think of You)

it’s been years since you’ve been gone

and i hate to say it in the plural tense

like loss is something that ages,

softens,

and learns how to sit quietly in a corner.

it doesn’t.

it finds new hiding places

to live inside ordinary things —

birthdays you never reached,

stories that ended without you,

the person i became

without your witness.

sometimes, the grief doesn’t hit me

i go about my day as normal

studying,

working,

answering texts,

moving through hours as they belong to me.

and then, something small happens.

a song playing too softly in a store to recognize,

but i swear it’s something from your playlist,

smelling something that reminds me,

of a place we once stood together

someone laughing the way you used to,

making me turn my head before my mind can catch up.

and for half a second

you are possible again.

close enough to reach,

but just out of sight,

like you’ve stepped into the next room

and forgot to say goodbye.

my body believes it first —

that small lift in my chest,

that reflex to look,

to listen,

to expect the impossible.

then reality returns,

slow and heavy,

and grief settles back in

like it never left.

i used to wonder

when will closure come?

as i’ve gotten older,

i’ve realized that maybe it doesn’t come

like people say it does —

not as peace,

not as understanding,

not as a day

where the mention of you no longer hurts.

maybe closure is smaller than that.

i think it’s something like

learning how to stand

in the middle of a life

that kept moving

without asking if i was ready.

learning how to smile

while something in me

is still missing.

learning how to let the wave pass

without pretending

it didn’t knock the air from my lungs.

while it hurts to think about

not being able to create

new memories with you,

i have learned to appreciate

the good times when you were here.

maybe closure isn’t

putting you behind me.

maybe it’s this quiet agreement

between memory and breath

that you can stay,

but i still have to go on.

that i can carry you

without setting my life down.

that love doesn’t end

just because the story did.

every time deja vu moments

hit me like a freight train

i don’t fight it the way i used to.

i let the memory come,

let it knock the wind out of me,

let it remind me

that you once lived here.

because grief isn’t proof

that i’m broken.

it’s proof

that you mattered.

so when the ache rises,

sudden and familiar,

i don’t rush to outrun it.

i stand still

and let love

finish what it started.

because even now,

in the middle of living,

you are still part of how

i breathe.