I wish I could reach over the table to kiss you
An intrusive thought (the dirty kind).
Your face, you look different;
Smoother lips, browner eyes,
Different, but not better.
You still play with the wrapper of your straw,
Creating little scrap piles
Of tiny balls between your rolling fingers,
Carefully stacked in front of the sugar container.
“How have you been?” you ask.
Stupid question.
“Well, really well.”
You laugh as if you know me.
“What’s so funny?”
“Your hair, it’s lighter.”
You noticed; I smile.
“There she is.”
Here I am
And there you are.
You always leave
But you always come back.