The Year of the Muffin

The party bus rattled the glass in the pane

with a strobe light pulse and a drunk refrain.

I sat on the sofa and looked at my shoes,

with nothing to prove and nothing to lose.

You brought out a muffin, a single blue spark,

a birthday candle cutting the dark.

We sat with two mugs, both chipped at the rim,

while the light in the kitchen went heavy and dim.

I found a carnation pressed in a book,

a dry, paper ghost of the time that we took.

No crowd in the hallway, no shouting for beer,

just a small, quiet room and the fact you were here.