You are there, tinted blue
under the plastic roofing
of this restaurant
in the neighbourhood
where we first met.

I am late, sweat gathering
in the crease behind my knees.
They might have buckled
if we were like that.

I do not think
I will be strong enough
(would have run away
if you had not turned around.)

As it is, you see me:
wave in place of a smile.

You’re back, I say,
mouth making words
that don’t belong to me.

I’m back, you reply.
I turn away, suddenly
embarrassed
at how much I’ve missed
the movement of your mouth.

We talk like people who
have never touched each other. 
Small and vital discourse
about the menu.

It has been a weekday
and three years
since I last saw you.
My fingers flex
against empty air –
every joint aching.
All along, I want to ask –

I need to stop talking
before it comes out,
swallowing desperation.

You talk briefly
endlessly
about all your life
taking place elsewhere.
I think, I think hatefully
about being here.

Between us lie
all the questions
you do not ask me
about myself.
It is nothing
but my hand shakes.
I am uncontrollable,
terrified by the clarity
of our situation.