The air holds
a half-finished sentence—
like a glass set down
too quickly,
still trembling on the table.
I can’t decide
if your words are anchors
or only stones
skipping across water,
vanishing
before I reach them.
People smile, nod—
just another passing scene.
But we know better.
The silence between us
is not empty.
It’s a crowded pub
on a Saturday night,
full of what-ifs and echoes
of promises
neither of us
has quite said aloud.
I wonder—
are you the ghost in my story,
or am I in yours
Quixotically Perfect 