The Birthday That Bit the Tongue

 

In the corner of a silver-lit booth,

under buzzing neon sighs,

a cake was cut with cautious hands—

sweet, but not kind.

Smiles sat like masks on porcelain skin,

each woman a shade of lukewarm grace.

I passed the slices, one by one,

to mouths that barely tasted truth.

“You don’t like me,” I whispered low—

not with anger, just a knowing ache.

She took the plate, eyes like glass,

and silence swallowed the rest of the cake.

The dream dissolved in coffee steam,

but the air still tasted false and thin.

A birthday wrapped in wary laughter—

a gift returned unopened.