Tonight is cold coffee
sitting in a paper-and-ink colored mug
on the corner of the desk;
it’s propping old tennis-shoes feet
on your swivel chair
and sitting so close i can see the holes in
the collar of your shirt
and nothing less.

Tonight is trying to pretend that
your arm on my shoulders
doesn’t matter to me;
it’s telling myself that we’re
just friends
and that everything beyond that
is so unclear;
it’s swallowing the lump in my throat
and inhaling your
bittersweet cologne.

Tonight is tiled floors and silent hallways
broken by eighties pop music
and dropping things on the floor,
because I worked ten hours today and
“i just can’t”
anymore;
it’s thin mints
crushed into chocolate and stardust pieces
on the floor of the office that I should’ve vacuumed
Friday, or Monday,
or probably the week before.

And tomorrow is going to be two meetings
and too many shuffling agendas
and everything else that I hate;
it’ll be khaki-colored pants
and a glimpse of you through
the window
if i’m lucky,
because the wet blanket
that will settle in tomorrow
and make itself at home
is reality.

But for tonight,
it’s almost ten thirty,
and I’m sure that I could
walk faster to my car
and kick less concrete pebbles
along the way,
but then I would’ve missed
you shouting
that you’ll see me
tomorrow,

so maybe
tomorrow
will be
okay.