in lands untold,
you stare back at me
from above the lip of your water glass.
Cold.
Three feet, but infinite distance lays between us;
a mass of oak,
and it’s grains attempting to fill the space.
Feiging interest,
I explore jungles with my fork,
examining the bottom of my bowl,
attempting—
hoping—
to find a rabbithole in which to lose myself.
Various on-lookers might observe
a quiet meal shared between lovers or friends—
sipping on their ice water and tea,
while I—
unbeknownst to them—
may as well sip gasoline.
We are resigned to eat in silence…
inwardly willing the check to come.
A quiet meal between friends, yes.
But if I laid my hand upon the table,
yours would not meet mine in return.
And if my eyes wandered to your plate,
you would not offer to share.
And when the check comes (AT LAST!),
we will pay our seperate fees,
and go our seperate ways.
So no, no,
this isn’t a quiet meal between lovers.
Not today.
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