Passing by
A warm mug, the lights blink on a tree I didn’t want to put up. there’s a hum in the air, a hollow kind of cheer that doesn’t stick to me.
she’s at their house, with him and the kid I failed to raise. they sip their drinks, tell their stories, unwrap gifts I wouldn’t have bought if things were different. but they aren’t.
the friends I knew are farther now, like smoke fading from an old fire. it’s not wrong or right, just a quiet step back a rearranging of the room.
sad, sure. but there’s a weight off my chest too. like a ghost finally leaving the doorframe.
I take another sip, scratch the dog behind the ears, watch his tail wag like nothing’s wrong. maybe he’s right. maybe nothing is wrong except the time I spent believing in things.
it’s not joy. not the kind in songs or cards. but it’s mine. and for now, it’s enough.