I said it once, I said it twice—
He isn't my type.
A fact I hold, a quiet vow,
It can never happen, not then, not now.
I know for sure, this settled place—
A line he'll never cross, a shut-tight space.
But why then does my chest grow tight?
Do I like him… late at night?
He can never be mine, I swear,
And yet—I catch myself in prayer:
A glance, a laugh, a thought unkind
To all the walls I've built inside.
But now the floor has split in two—
He's leaving. What am I to do?
We will never meet again. No street, no door.
I don't even know his name—what for?
Still, I know the way his jacket slips
To cover the back of his hands and fingertips.
His voice a little cracked, a little low,
A husky whisper I already miss, somehow.
Red shoes that tapped a quiet beat—
I memorized them, head down, heart discreet.
I know how he walks — that easy, loping stride.
I know where he passes to get to the other side.
I know his house by the gate that sighs,
By the step where the evening shadow lies.
And I remember the first time I heard him speak—
Not to me, of course. My throat went weak.
He was talking to someone else, about the rain.
Three words. That's all. I played them again and again.
A stranger passing through my night,
And still I ask, Do I like him… right?
Not my type, I whisper one last time—
Then let the lie hang in the fading light...
