Your Name Still Lives in My Throat
written by: Lex
The rain stitched silence into the cracks of the morning.
I almost dialed again—
almost let the ring carry my grief
like a bottle tossed into the tide.
Breaking up with you
was like untying my own ribcage.
I didn’t know you could love a house
and still set it on fire,
but here I am,
watching smoke spell your name across my lungs.
I still dial sometimes.
Hang up before the first breath of your voice can haunt me.
Still pretend your name isn’t lodged
between the soft bones of my throat—
a trespasser I never gave the key to.
I don’t say it aloud anymore.
But it hums inside my silences,
staggers in the pause before I lie and say,
“I’m fine.”
It trembles inside the word “okay,”
the way glass trembles before it shatters.
Your name still lives in my mouth,
a prayer too stubborn to end,
a ghost clinging to the hinges of my teeth.
It stings on cold mornings—
in the half-smiles of strangers,
in a laugh too familiar,
in the ache where softness used to live.
I swallow it down.
Every day,
like bad medicine I pretend not to need.
But it rises.
Rises when I pass our old haunts,
where the echo of your absence out-screams the crowds.
I thought forgetting you would feel like breathing underwater —
a gasp, then relief.
But it’s holding my breath every time someone says your name,
like their mouth is a weapon
they don’t even know they’re firing.
I don’t miss you like a movie reel in slow motion.
I miss you like a broken dish in the sink,
like songs half-sung,
like TikToks I scroll past too fast
because even the beat sounds like goodbye.
No, I haven’t said your name in months.
But it sleeps in my mouth,
waiting for the day
I finally wake up brave enough
to let it go.
- Your Name Still Lives in My Throat - May 29, 2025
