Next of Kin

The group text buzzed with the news of the date.

His name is there, a 'maybe' in the thread.

I can already feel the predictable weight

of the things that will never be said.

He’ll wear that cologne that smells like a mask.

He’ll grip my shoulder until it feels bruised.

'How’s work?' is the only thing he’ll ask,

leaving me feeling shaken and used.

I remember his smile, a yellowing tooth,

a thin-lipped grin that never reached his eyes.

He’s a man who has never been fond of the truth,

wrapping his boredom in loud, sweaty lies.