Smile Like It’s Instinct

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The machine grinds on.
People shake hands.
They talk about nothing and mean it.
They smile like it’s instinct,
like breathing,
like they were built for this.

I watch.

I try to step in,
say something,
something clever, something real.
But their gaze darts past me,
already onto the next thing,
the next person who knows how to play the game.

So I sit.
Nurse a drink,
or a cigarette,
or the fact that I exist
and don’t know why.

The world moves.
It always moves.
People link arms,
go home together,
laugh in the dark.

And me —

I walk home alone,
focusing on my footsteps,
wondering how long it’s been
since anyone looked in my direction.

Since anyone really saw me.