Published on: 1/13/2014
Eavesdrop

Too late for cooking when I finally accept
that we have not spoken for a week, silence
like dust pilfering the refrigerator's crown,
milk to curdle leisurely as if embracing its
expiration date. In the sushi bar at the brim
of my street, pockmarked with conversation,
the waiter is the waiter I remember telling
you about, the same Yiruma arrangement
unravelling as he passes my table. This is
one place I have chosen to distract myself
from the furniture, or what is possibly the
beginning of everything we have promised
not to encourage, your body sound asleep
half an ocean away as I struggle to blame
the time difference. As if on purpose, I am
almost the only one left, slivers of rice and
pickled ginger forsaken on the mahogany
like incoherent thoughts. When the waiter
invites me back, grinning, his neck gently
bowed, I do not wonder if you are awake.
He does not know of you. The hush does.