The Wrong Fit
The tea was cold, the air was tight,
a curated version of a Friday night.
He filled the silence like a crowded room,
bragging loud to mask the gloom.
A monologue of "me" and "mine,"
while I sipped water and watched the time.
He spoke for hours, a frantic stream,
yet said nothing of the things between.
Dull as lead and sharp as glass,
waiting for the clock to pass...
Then he leaned in, a sudden weight,
the clumsy climax of a hollow date.
The pressure of it broke the seal,
a sudden sob for everything real.
"The sun," I lied, though the light was low.
"Just got in my eyes," and I turned to go.
But then I saw it—the final blow,
the only thing I used to know.
He wore your shirt, that heathered grey,
A ghost of a person who’d gone away.
And in that wreckage, the humor took hold,
a flash of irony, bitter and bold.
I laughed at the cosmic, cruel design:
Your shirt on a stranger and none of you mine.
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