What I Was Made For

By Peter Bowden
I think my heart is breaking, and some days, it feels like I won’t make it through the softness of it. It’s not the big things that undo me—it’s the quiet ones. A sunset that looks too much like yesterday. The hush of a summer rain tapping on the roof like forgotten fingers. A melody drifting in from nowhere, a song no one sings anymore. Even my dreams have turned into haunted rooms, filled with the scent of old embraces, the echo of whispered names, the warmth of love that lingers long after it’s gone.

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