I’m greeted by 11 spiraling floors;
my head is turning endlessly.
I finally park in a spot
that kisses the ass of the car
in front of me.
I ask how you’re doing.
“Fine.”
You ask how I’m doing.
Here comes the wine.
“Did you get home safe?”
How could I?
I just left it.
That shit was obvious.
I’ve had this conversation before.
I’ve said the same words
and opened the same doors.
I don’t respond;
I just reminisce,
and write:
‘I tried holding on
to what you provided me.
My fingers squeezed tightly
for what could’ve been an eternity.
Or however long it took for me to sweat
in this hellscape of a parking lot.’
I’m at arm’s length
even when we meet again.
My hands treat you like a stranger;
my words speak like a friend;
my mind thinks like a lover;
all amiss to hesitation.