He's nobody

He’s nobody.”
That’s what she said—
not his name, 
just a dismissal, 
light enough to disappear. 

She said, not him,
said don’t worry,
her voice a feather—
barely touched the air.

And I,
tired of questions
that came back wearing silence,
believed her.

Of course I did—
softening my doubt, 
until it resembled 
something like trust. 

But Nobody 
had a name,
had salmon for dinner, 
had good conversation, 
had a couch that would soon 
know her shape. 

She went to his house, 
like a gallery at night—
quiet, 
unsure if she was going 
to worship or to steal. 

Slipped through Nobody’s
door at dusk,
perfume trailing behind,
like the ghost of a promise
that already knew 
it was broken.  

Sank into his couch, 
pressed lips like a secret 
I was never meant to know—
with a language 
she promised never to learn. 

That is the part I cannot forget.
Not the sin—
but the ease.
The quiet want.

The learning something
I'll never teach her. 

Came home, 
like she’d been with nobody. 
Stripped down like memory— 
Laid beside me,
skin to skin.  

I mistook the silence
for intimacy, 
for something sacred—
not aftermath.. 

and held her,
unaware of the forgiveness 
leaking out of me.

I hate how soft
the truth was
when it finally sat beside me—
legs crossed,
quiet,
kind. 

I remained—
smoked the silence,
sifted through the ashes
of what I’d mistaken
for devotion. 

And somewhere
between
“he’s nobody”
and
“I wasn’t there long”—
I felt myself fading 
into someone 
who no longer cares

about nobodies.