Soul Contracted

We didn't sign anything that night at the bar,

no napkin with our names, no clinked-glass vow,

Just your hand over mine when the music dipped

And you said, half-joking, “Don’t disappear on me.”

I laughed, but something in the room went still,

like the universe had just cleared its throat.

~~

Later, in your kitchen,

We made midnight pasta with too much chili,

Noses running, eyes watering for more than one reason.

You traced circles on my wrist

and called it “home base,”

as if my pulse belonged to your language now.

~~

I didn’t know you were slipping clauses into everything—

the way you borrowed my hoodie and never returned it,

the way my friends slowly became “our” friends,

How my spare toothbrush migrated to your sink

like it had always lived there.

~~

By the time you said, “we’re not serious,”

My heart had already initialed every page.

I’d agreed to stay soft

while you kept your exit routes memorized,

promised patience without asking for reciprocity,

signed away the right to call this what it was.

~~

Now I’m here, unlearning your name like fine print,

crossing out invisible signatures in the margins of my days,

canceling a contract no one else can see—

still checking the mailbox of my chest

for a letter that says,

“You’re free to go, this debt is forgiven,”

knowing it has to be written in my own handwriting.