Tuesday’s got a grey glow,  
not sad, not bright—just in between  
like the coffee I left half-finished  
or the voicemail I didn’t delete  
I’m walking home like it’s the last scene  
not rushing,  
just letting each footstep say  
"I’m here"  
streetlamp spotlight  
bag rustling like applause  
no crowd, but I bow anyway  
some moments deserve a curtain call  
I hum that melody I made up last week  
four notes and a pause  
maybe it’s a song,  
maybe it’s just me remembering how to feel  
no drama,  
just day-old lipstick on my cup  
and the way I look up at my ceiling  
like it’s got stars no one else can see  
credits roll in my head  
cast: me, myself, maybe you  
score by the city  
directed by whatever this feeling is  
fade out.