She was there.

And I wasn’t.

Not really.

Not the way I should have been.

She sat down,
    ordered a beer,
    a plate of fries,
    gave me her time—

    and I gave mine to strangers.

She never looks at her phone.
     But last night, she did.

And instead of seeing it
         for what it was,

         I let it be an excuse to keep looking the other way.

My back to her.

My attention elsewhere.

As if she had anywhere else
           she needed to be.

Until, suddenly,
        she did.

She left.

And I knew.

Knew before she walked out,
    before the door closed,
    before I stood there alone,

    still facing the wrong direction.

The kind of night you can’t undo.

The kind of feeling that lingers in your chest.

The kind of mistake that carves its name into you.

And I can’t fix it with words alone.

Can’t write my way back into her arms.

But I can show her—
    not with promises,
    not with words…

    but with _presence_.

Show her that next time,
             every time,

The only thing I’ll be turning toward…
                                      is her.