You named them like a gospel, chapter and verse,
the ones who would show up, for better or worse.
You recited the roster with pride in each name.
I nodded along. I did not see the game.

I thought I was listening to who you adore.
I did not yet know I was hearing a door
close quietly, cleanly, without any sound.
The list was a boundary. I was out of bounds.

You smiled when you said it, warm in the telling,
but something beneath it was carefully spelling
a sentence I missed while I sat there and beamed.
The list was a mirror. I was not in it, it seemed.

I replayed it later, alone in the dark,
each name like a light and me, not a spark.
Not angry. Not bitter. Just quietly shown
exactly how far I was from being known.

That is the cruelest way to be left,
not a fight, not a door slam, not open theft,
just a list said aloud with a smile and a shrug
that says you are furniture. Not people. Not love.

So here is to you and your ride-or-die crew,
I thought I was earning a place on it, too.
I had your name quietly penciled in mine.
Turns out I was reading a different sign.