The Shape of Her by Maura M. Vélez Estéves

I dream about her,

like I’ve met her before.

Like I know how many freckles her face carries.

I dream about her voice,

like I’ve heard it call out to me.

I dream about her,

like I’ve met her before, but I never have.

We aren’t even acquaintances in my head.

Maybe,

when I kiss you,

I’ve been transferring your memories into mine, and now, I miss her, too.

Maybe,

somewhere,

in a past life, we were friends,

and that’s why I carry this unshakable feeling of guilt,

every time I look into your eyes,

like I’ve stolen something,

that isn’t mine,

and no matter how many times I grab it by the hand and call it my own,

it will never truly belong to me.

Maybe,

what I have is called unreasonable fear, of losing something

I never owned,

or investing in something

that was never built to last.

When you touch me,

I wonder if you’re reaching for me,

or for the memory of someone

softer, someone quieter,

someone who wouldn’t wake up with the weight of what-ifs

pressed into her chest.

I dream about her,

not out of longing

but out of mourning.

Like she died before I could ever meet her.

And yet, her absence lingers between us, like a third body in our bed.

I want to love you like me,

But how can I?

When I’m haunted by echoes of a story I was never part of. How can I?

When I feel like a placeholder for a name you don’t remember saying out loud.

Some nights, I feel her fingerprints on your smile,

like I’m borrowing something breakable, that I’m supposed to return.

I dream about her, but I wake up with you,

And maybe,

just maybe,

that’s enough to convince myself to stay, and to stop searching for ghosts,

in a place where love is trying so desperately to live.