Cogitation on Torn Paper
We sit at the diner,
two mirrors facing their reflection.
The tip of your chin sits perpendicular
to the words you dribble onto the counter.
I can see your feelings silk-screened onto your face,
funneling into your hands, in the way they fritter the napkin,
then the straw wrapper.
I can feel the little pieces,
blowing across my skin
scurrying onto my plate
from the draft in the door
I can feel our words fly similarly in the air,
swiftly navigating the tension of time
and drift across the surface of our solidarity.
After the diner, we say goodbye
and I wrap my arms around your bones
my frittered soul
coming back to me.