Blackjack

I tell myself he is the lesson,
the penultimate expression of my midlife crisis—
not its cure.

I keep sitting at this table,
chips stacked as minutes,
rent due as hours,
wagering years I cannot win back.

He is amazing, yes,
but never what I need.
To him, I am burden,
not anchor, not compass.

If I were truly his dream,
he would have spoken it by now,
held it steady in his hands.
Instead I hold the silence,
waiting for maturity that does not come.

We were both victims
of our own creation.
It didn’t count,
I told myself—
as though naming the fire
made the burns disappear.

But each excuse is another bet,
and the dealer does not care
why I place it.

Every day is a hand played,
a hand lost.
I tell myself to quit early,
but my palms itch for the next card,
as if one more turn could pay back
all that’s already gone.