Unfamiliar
Your shirt still hangs
on the back of a chair,
creases shaped like hesitation.
I pour water, watch it still.
The glass fogs between my hands—
a small, invisible heat
that refuses to leave.
You said it didn’t mean anything.
I watched the words fall,
each one a thin blade
cutting the air clean.
I keep replaying the part
where you turned to me,
half-light, half-doubt.
You said my name
like it wasn’t mine.
Now we talk about weather,
traffic, the show you liked—
safe nouns, easy verbs,
as if language could unmake
what the body already said.
I nod. I smile.
Somewhere beneath it,
the ache of being
almost known.
