We were a quiet game under dim lights,
chalk dust settling like secrets on our hands,
you lined me up with careful aim,
called your shot like you always knew how it would end.
I was the cue ball,
never meant to stay,
only to collide, to carry your intent,
to set everything else in motion while losing myself in the process.
You broke me first,
a sharp crack across the silence,
scattering everything we were
into angles neither of us could follow back.
We danced in ricochets,
bank shots off apologies,
kisses that felt like spin,
just enough English to make me miss what was straight.
And you,
you played like you’d already won,
sinking pieces of me one by one
into pockets I could never climb out of.
I kept thinking if I stayed still,
if I let you line me up just right,
you’d choose me last,
save me like something worth holding.
But love,
I was never the eight ball in your hands,
just another shot to clear the table,
just something to move out of your way.
So when you leaned in for the final strike,
eyes cold with practiced certainty,
I realized,
you weren’t aiming for the win.
You were aiming to end the game.