AFTER THE MILKSHAKE

I didn’t plan to keep thinking about

the way you looked at the menu

like it was asking something back.

You talk in curves—

not answers.

Like every sentence

is testing how much truth

I can carry without flinching.

They warned me about silence—

said it’s where things go wrong.

But sitting across from you,

it felt like a third person at the table,

leaning in,

waiting to see who’d break first.

Funny how midnight makes everything

sound like it matters more.

Like the city finally stops pretending

it knows where it’s going.

I don’t know if I’m supposed to want this,

or just survive the thought of it.

You talk like danger’s a language

you learned before restraint.

If this is just a moment,

it’s got teeth, it won’t let go.

I tell myself I’m in control,

but I already know I’m not.

You say boredom’s the real killer,

and I laugh like I’ve never met it.

But I’ve lived inside routines

that felt safer than they were.

I know the math of bad decisions—

how fast one step becomes a story

you can’t revise.

You ask questions like you’re testing gravity,

leaning just far enough

to feel the drop.

I keep my hands in my pockets,

pretend I’m not calculating

every possible ending.

You ever notice how easy it is

to sound brave when the bill isn’t paid yet?

I keep thinking—

some nights don’t ask permission.

I don’t know if I’m meant to cross this line

or just watch it pass.

You make recklessness look honest,

like truth without the mask.

If this night’s a loaded question,

I’m standing way too close.

I tell myself I’ll walk away,

but my feet don’t listen.

You talk about disappearing

like it’s a form of clarity.

I think about all the exits

I’ve memorized instead of used.

They call this professionalism.

Control.

I call it learning how to stand still

while something important

walks past you.

I don’t know if this is temptation

or the shape of regret.

You speak like every risk is sacred,

like safety’s a kind of death.

If I go home unchanged tonight,

I’ll lie and say I’m fine.

But something in me already moved,

and I can’t rewind.

I keep walking.

The diner lights disappear behind me.

And I realize—

some conversations don’t end.

They just follow you home.