Forgetting Name
Isa Maiz
I used to write it
in the corners of my notebook,
like it meant something
like you meant something.
​
Back then, the letters looked heavier,
like they carried a secret weight
I couldn’t share with anyone else.
Your name in ink felt safer than saying it out loud,
as if silence could protect the part of me
that wanted you to notice.
​
Now, I can't even spell it right.
I had to check your profile.
twice.
​
It feels foreign, the shape of it,
like a word from a language
I don’t remember speaking.
Strange how something once so familiar
slips through your memory
without asking permission.
​
It’s weird how people fade,
like songs you overplay,
until silence feels better.
​
And the quiet isn’t sad anymore,
just steady, just present.
I don’t hate you.
I don’t miss you.
I just forgot.
​
And that feels
strange
but okay.
​
Maybe that’s what moving on is
not fireworks, not rage, not tears,
just an empty space where once there was noise,
and realizing you don’t need to fill it.
