A glimpse into private shared lives sparks memories. |
The Table At the table Sideways to mine The lovers' passion Spreads across the room And I cannot resist Their unawares invitation To watch The seduction. Their eyes Smile and laugh. Their lips Speak quiet intimacies Kiss without touching. My meal interrupts The watching. Familiar aromas, flavors, Like the passion, Spread over me, Spark the part of me Where she still lives. I close my eyes And the feeling of her Moves through me. I open my eyes. Plates and bowls Empty now Sit at the side Of the table Their laughter Has gone silent Their eyes Look between them To the table. I follow their gaze To see their hands . . . My breath catches Their hands . . . Their hands embrace Fingers entwine Come apart His hands Take hers, Turn hers Her fingers respond Caress his palms Stroke his fingers Their hands . . . join Wanting to moan I look away For my hands Feel hers My fingers softly Caress her palms The back of her hands She slides her fingers Down my fingers Her fingertips caress mine I close my eyes Feel remembered desire Of this room's ghosts Speaking quiet intimacies Kissing without touching Making love With their hands My eyes open The table is empty But for The crumpled linen Of their napkins A ravaged ramekin Holding remnants Of custard and crumbs And a single smeared spoon Its twin sits Untouched |