“it’s not real—it’s just…”

⸻

Saw you spill your coffee,

laughed like it was meant to say hello.

Had your name saved under something

I should’ve changed a week ago.

You quoted lines from nowhere

like they came with deeper weight.

I smiled too wide, you looked away—

some feelings just can’t translate.

You had that “don’t ask” energy,

a past tucked in designer jeans.

Said your dreams were glitchy reels,

looping through forgotten scenes.

⸻

Minor crush warning,

flashing red beneath my skin.

We danced like we were buffering—

neither out nor fully in.

Spoke in lowercase disasters,

punched with grace and empty gin.

Call it fate or faulty signals,

but we both know how this ends.

⸻

You played the DJ’s worst decision,

and I knew it by the beat.

We slow-spun in misdirection,

counting exits with our teeth.

A song can hold too much,

like hands that never touched.

Your voice cracked on the bridge—

I pretended not to blush.

There’s a poem on your voicemail,

half-recited, out of time.

I left it there on purpose—

to sound braver in rewind.

⸻

Minor crush warning,

soft and reckless in disguise.

We said too much in syllables

and nothing with our eyes.

Tried decoding each inflection—

missed the message every time.

Typed a truth and hit delete,

then blamed it on the night.

⸻

“Not serious. Just seismic.”

⸻

“You blinked.

I disappeared.

We synced.

Then steered.”

“Always almost… always clear…”

⸻

Minor crush warning,

broadcast from a flicked-away plan.

We almost mattered briefly

like ink on someone’s hand.

You said “just dance it off”

but the floor gave out again—

A glitch in harmless longing

that still stings when it lands.

⸻

“Didn’t mean to mean it.

Didn’t mean to mean it.”