Amelia James Poetry

I remember the shake in my hands,
a tremor not of cold, but of something else—
the flash of a face I’d buried
beneath a thousand what-ifs.

He walks through the door,
and my body knows him,
before my mind catches up.
A heartbeat too fast,
a voice too familiar—
it’s not him I’m afraid of
but the space he left inside me.

I want to speak,
to scream, to break,
but all that comes is the silent ache
of years unsaid.
Where do I start,
when the ground beneath my feet
was pulled out before I could even stand?

I wonder how much of me is still
waiting for the apology that never came—
the one I never asked for
but still crave like water.

But here we are,
you still a shadow in my chest,
your absence a presence
that won’t fade
even as I try to forget
what I never knew to name.

I could stand in front of you
and say every word that’s been haunting me,
but my lips won’t speak.
They never will.
Instead, I’ll carry the shaking in my hands
and wonder why I never learned
how to let go of something
that never really was.

-Amelia James