We never made a promise, never tried
just slipped between arrivals and goodbyes.
No grand romance, no reason why
just one brief moment, once or twice.
You had your ship. I had the line.
We kissed, then drifted; clean, polite.
And though I knew you’d never be mine,
I still recall that final bite:
The glance through glass, the weight I wore,
the echo of your hand, now gone.
We said so little, but there was more
a tide still pulling; lingering on.
I stayed. You left. That’s what you do.
Still, once, I think you almost knew.
