He asked me without anger in his voice

He asked me without anger in his voice,

just checking if I remembered,

if the promise still mattered to me.

I told him we would go. We will go.

Words that scatter like they don't belong to me,

like I didn't say them, didn't mean them,

like I'm not the kind of person who forgets

that a kid is counting.

He's older now. He'll forget eventually—

the arcade, the promise, the day

his uncle said we would

and then we didn't.

But he won't forget

that I looked him in the eye

and lied the way adults do,

casual, distracted, sure

he'd understand someday

why people say things they don't mean.

I'm still his uncle.

He's still waiting.

And I'm still the person who broke it,

who said forever

and meant not today,

not tomorrow,

maybe never.