The Gap

I told him what happened at work,

told him the thing that wouldn't leave my head,

and I watched his face go slack instead

of the shock I needed, the mercy of being heard.

"Sure, sure," he said,

and reached for his coffee cup

like the conversation was wrapping up,

like I'd said something small about the weather.

His hand moved on.

His eyes were already somewhere else.

The distance between what I'd lived

and what he believed

opened up like a mouth.

I kept talking for a moment longer,

but the words were falling into a gap,

into the space between

the person I am and the person he saw

reaching for that cup,

already leaving,

already done.

The thing I told him is still true.

It happened. It's still happening.

But now it's also the thing

he didn't believe,

which is a different thing entirely.