a booth for two
and a light for dimming
my feet placed across from me
on the empty seat
where she would be,
my usual,
my only drink,
leaving a watery ring
of the the patterned wood
and there's an empty spot
where hers should be.
the waitress wants to talk
and I think she'd listen
but what would I say
if I couldn't find the words
to try to fill that vacant booth
or to explain
this love
combined of my coffee and of
my aquarius, usually
on the opposite seat,
that I simply cannot
fathom.