after the ride
the gangway wobbles.
one foot on, one foot off.
is it stable? is it safe?
i came back to meet you after ten years,
hoping it would be different.
i stood up from your bed
and saw a piece of a woman’s makeup bag in the drawer.
i already knew. nothing had changed.
the ship starts moving before i decide.
i stay on the pier. i don’t wave. i watch.
you left for vacation,
thanked me for the night that helped you
and emptied me.
you said i was wonderful.
the water is too calm.
it whispers jump.
you’ll be fine.
closeness.
you always knew where to touch,
as if you’d studied my codes.
you said,
i didn’t know you were that sensitive.
i know the loop.
the climb, the drop,
the grin that says hold on.
the quiet parts where i pretend i don’t exist.
i wrote to you,
fed your illusion that we were someone
only when we were together.
held your greatness so it wouldn’t fall apart.
i know how i run to you
like to a new ride,
begging for another hit of height.
you said you missed me,
that you’d cross the world to see me.
just words.
now i’m bent over a trash can after the ride.
my throat burning, legs shaking,
thinking how good it felt
right before it didn’t.
you stopped replying.
i said i wouldn’t lower myself again,
wouldn’t feed your need for attention.
so i blocked you.
i slide to the floor.
breathe in pieces.
the air too sweet.
i can still smell your perfume,
feel your hands,
the kiss that isn’t worth remembering.
finally, the ground holds.
still, i keep searching for your number
in the blocked list.
