It’s Seven O’Clock

A Poem

Photo by Eleni Trapp on Unsplash

it’s seven o’clock
on a Friday,
and I know you’re home
from all those days past
when I was yours
and you were mine
in our own little sphere,
away from the rest of the world.

your mom said you’re doing well,
back from your trip overseas —
and all I can remember
is the way you cried
the night before you left
because you were regretting
how we ended — when we ended —
and I wouldn’t give you another chance.

but now I’m here, alone,
wondering about you
and how you liked
your tour of France —
that dream place we said we’d go,
hitting up Paris streets,
kissing under a glow of lights
while the world passed us by.

the truth is I miss you,
and it would be so easy
just to dial up your number
which I blocked long ago —
but I can’t, I can’t,
because I’m still hurting
over that girl
you said was just a…