Too Much Time

Across the street, a glimpse, a turn of head.

Then gone. The memory rose, unasked.

A coffee shop, the words you said,

the hollow apology you tasked

yourself to give. Too soft, too low.

The smell of stale grounds in the air.

Your eyes, not meeting mine, a slow

drift of indifference, almost a stare

at the chipped rim of your cup.

It didn't fix a thing. It felt

like an echo, meant to prop

up something already dealt.

Too late. The moment passed, the chance.

It just sat there, between us, flat.

Like a broken, slow, awkward dance.

And now, a ghost, still waiting at that.