Yesterday felt good—
    or so I thought.

We sat on the patio,
   regulars drifting in,
   Yankees game on, (for you)
   night easy.

Then—
     something I said?
        or didn’t say?
   something I missed—
  sent you home early. (and unhappy)

Later, your message:
       we have a lot to talk about,
       and you don’t want bullshit.

I replay it in my head,
  every word,
        glance,
        and come up empty.

Today’s been endless,
        anxiety looping louder with every hour.

But when I asked about tonight,
    you said: “Sure.”

One word,
    small,
    maybe nothing,
    maybe everything.

So I sit at Irby’s,
           waiting,
            hoping—

trying not to crumble
before the talking even begins.

*No bullshit*.