The waitress brings me a glass of water
then sets another place
as if she, too, imagines you were here.

I sip from my glass, then take yours
full to my mouth. Slow river in my throat.
I drink both. First yours, then mine.

Then take the menu, open it up,
shift to feel the place beneath the table
where our knees would touch.

Rasma Haidri

If you've any comments on this poem, Rasma Haidri would be pleased to hear from you.