Empty Promises

We stood in the corner store,

ice cream melting slow and sticky,

a drip tracing lines down small sleeves.

You looked up, eyes wide,

tiny hands gripping melting cones

while I mumbled words

that felt hollow even as I said them.

"We'll go fishing," I said,

a promise already heavy with weight,

too big to hold,

too easy to let slip away

like drips on your sleeve.

You didn’t ask again,

just waited, a quiet hope

pressed into the stickiness of sugar

and the rough edge of the counter.