The Dinner Never Happened

I scrolled back and found where you stopped,

eight months of silence after that last line.

Your number in my phone, and I haven't dropped

the habit of checking, hoping you'd send a sign.

Thursday I marked the Thai place on my mind,

the one with bad lighting and green curry

that you said tasted like forgiveness, and kind

of like grace. I was sorry. I wasn't in a hurry.

I sent the message like it was just another day.

Delivered. Not read. It's still sitting there.

That's the thing about the last time—you don't weigh

the words before you speak them. You don't prepare.

You don't think it's the last time. You just move on.

I kept the text. The cursor keeps blinking.

Your name stays in my phone, though you're gone,

and I'm still here, doing nothing but thinking.