The Burn of the Seen

A black hair tie was tucked in the passenger seat,

a small, elastic circle that isn't mine.

It felt hot in my palm, like a live coal,

while you parked and hummed a song I don't know.

You’re laughing at a text, the blue light of the phone

shining off your glasses, tilted just an inch away.

I can see the reflection of your thumb moving fast,

deleting the evidence before I can ask for the truth.

There’s a red mark on my wrist where I gripped too hard,

a circular sting that looks like a brand.

I want to scream but I just watch the screen,

smothered by the heat of what I haven't seen.