Just GoPerhaps you think you're doing me a favor, when,
In fact, you're not: pretending that you care for me.
The second hand sweeps twice, then thrice, and you
Can't find a thing to say. Your eyes keep straying
Toward your phone to scan the sort of messages
You once had seemed to want from me. You say
It's late. You ought to go, your coffee cup still
Half-full, steaming. Yes, let's call our visit over.
Don't say, “We'll do this again,” as I'm content
All by myself, and what you think of as a favor
Now feels more like pain.
Poetry by Lawrence Beck
Read 84 times
Written on 2018-12-23 at 21:43
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