Elaine, Last Seen
After Malory, for the swipe-right age
She swiped him on a slow Tuesday—
a borrowed horse, a careless grin.
His bio said, not looking, lately.
She read that as a way back in.
Three weeks he burned like steady weather,
and called her clever, called her late.
She didn’t know about the other
thread he muted, calls unsent—
A queen who kept a king for cover
and gave her nights to one not meant.
He drove out there on Tuesday evenings,
told Elaine he’d worked too long.
He wasn’t lying, only leaving
the truer story going on.
The lady on the river, waiting,
had also read a silence wrong.