It’s breakfast on Sunday
when the recipe is cut by half
and still– leftovers.
Friday night with drinks in bedrooms
shared with paper friends
and digital adventure.
Buying two tickets so you can share the experience
and somehow still standing
alone with the extra in your pocket,
unused and unwanted.
Trying to not read too deeply into the unseasonably cold wind
lifting the unruly ends of your hair
as you huddle alone on the sidewalk outside.
Small moments where the quiet gets too loud
and the loud crescendos into quiet
and you reach for the familiar but grasp
nothing.