Little Miss Gym-Equipment-Not-Wiped

Lyrics

Seven-fifteen. Tuesday.
The air tastes like rubber and good intentions.

And there you are.
On the black vinyl of the pec deck.
A perfect, glistening map of a stranger's back.
A Rorschach test of effort.
I can almost feel the warmth coming off you.
I can see the faint, cross-hatched texture of her Lululemon top, printed on the slick surface.

You left your shadow here for me.
A little salt-water signature.
A damp, personal disregard.
The bottle is two feet away.
The paper towels are full.
But you left your ghost here, for me.

I saw her leave.
Ponytail high, swinging like a metronome of not-caring.
Didn't look back.
Didn't break her stride.
The blue glow of her phone was already the most important thing in the room.
She walked right past the little red sanitizing station.
A monument to what we could be, if we just... took a second.

You left your shadow here for me.
A little salt-water signature.
A damp, personal disregard.
The bottle is two feet away.
The paper towels are full.
But you left your ghost here, for me.

It's the shopping cart left sideways in the empty parking space.
It's the single inch of coffee left in the pot.
It's the small, easy test of a person, failed before the day has really begun.
A quiet hum of 'that's someone else's problem now.'

I wipe away the ghost.
Your ghost.
The vinyl squeaks clean under my hand.
I take a deep breath.
My turn now.
My set.
My sweat.
Mine to clean up.