You Know How It Is

The clink of her cup on the saucer,

that soft, dry sound.

Her lip, a faint red trace,

pressed to the chipped edge of porcelain.

She said, "You know how it is,"

and I nodded, looking down,

pretending I did, though I didn't yet know

anything at all.

Today, a stranger's voice,

same cadence, same easy fall.

Just that phrase, a small, blunt sting,

a sudden, cold recall.

And the tea went cold then, too,

just like the silence after.

I remember thinking, "I'll call you,"

but I never did, after.