In Produce

I saw you in the fluorescent light,

reaching for an avocado, squeezing it tight,

the way you always did—

careful, precise, your own code.

I didn't say a word.

You put it back.

You reached for another.

I was standing in the gap between us,

two years wide, a produce section deep,

and I realized I was watching you

like you were a scene from someone else's life.

Your hair was different.

Or I was.

You never looked up.

You squeezed, replaced, decided.

I left the aisle the way I left our friendship—

quietly, in the middle of something,

with no one watching

to make it official.