breaks me

12:48 PM

I keep finding batch codes on feelings.

Best-by dates stamped in quiet ink.

Fresh at opening. Then the aftertaste.

A lesson with sugar on it.

It isn’t bouquets or pretty receipts anymore.

Not laugh-track small talk,

not your tidy talent for warmth on schedule.

Affection used to arrive gift-wrapped;

now it shows up as terms and conditions.

You were the opening offer.

Sweet on the first page,

costly in the footnotes.

I told myself not to care.

Most days I pass inspection.

On others, the room flickers.

Why doesn’t love hold temperature?

Days move; you recalibrate.

You promised a bridge that would stay,

then filed for maintenance and took the road.

I keep a private theory: I am hard to merchandise.

Hairline cracks under perfect glaze.

I translate that into policy: reduce demand,

smile at the audit, don’t leak.

If there’s a game, I’ll learn the rulebook,

shuffle the cards without asking the dealer for mercy,

call the restlessness “weather,”

and stand very still until it passes.

You were an intro offer.

Sweet at first.

Now you optimize for yourself.

I say it doesn’t matter.

My hands disagree

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