Expiration Dates

I fall in love in three texts. Maybe two. I memorize the way you say “lol” Like it’s a love language. I build shrines out of screenshots And assign meaning to every “hey.” You say “good morning” once, And now the sun owes you rent. You don’t reply for two hours, And I swear I’ve died twelve times And come back bitter. I am pulse and panic, A girl made of read receipts and spirals. You say something different. Or worse, You say nothing. And I start packing up my heart before you even leave. I call it self preservation. You call it “too much.” I’ve lost count Of how many almosts I’ve buried. Little ghosts that haunted my notes app, My sleep, My chest. They lived in me for a week, Or a month, Or a year. But always loud. Always louder than they should’ve been. So I rip it out before they get the chance. Before the silence grows teeth. Before they drift And I drown. This isn’t love. It’s a fire alarm I mistake for music. It’s a storm I keep calling summer. It’s a need to be needed That eats me alive. But still... If you text back, I swear I’ll breathe again.