there’s a glass on the table i don’t remember pouring and a text i half-wrote at half past four in the morning you said something honest, i made it a joke now it’s stuck in my throat like a line i can’t quote there’s a jacket that isn’t mine on the chair and a name in my head that’s not fully there i keep scrolling like it’s gonna reappear but it’s just last night getting less sincere it’s quiet now, but it’s louder in my head every word i wish i’d left unsaid sunday afternoon nothing left to do but replay every little thing i said to you sunday afternoon grey without a clue was it just a laugh or did i miss something true? i remember you leaning in like it meant something more i deflected with a punchline i’ve used before you smiled like you knew it was all a front like you’ve seen that version of me a month too late to decide if i got it wrong or if it was never there all along now i’m stuck with the echo of what could be and the version of you that’s just memory i could call, but what’s the line? “sorry i was me last night”? sunday afternoon nothing left to do but replay every little thing i said to you sunday afternoon grey without a clue was it just a laugh or did i miss something true? sunday afternoon guess i’ll see it through by the time the evening comes i’ll say it wasn’t you sunday afternoon back to something new same mistakes i always make like i’m supposed to
