The soda was warm

The soda was warm,

flat,

too sweet.

Sticky on my fingers,

on my lip.

I watched the fireworks alone,

the bursts

too loud, too bright,

for one person.

Later, I stitched a story

with her name in it.

"Remember," I said,

"how we laughed

when the big one went off?"

A lie,

a small, careful knot.

She posted a photo today.

Blurry,

from that year.

"Our time there," she wrote.

My stomach clenches,

the phantom taste

of flat cola.

It was never ours.