A Residue, From Me To You, she suggests with a smile
that's eclipsed by fingertips, which stifle up her...(no
words could describe her laugh, I've tried). But it still slips up,
steam from a cup, that safe-keeps remnants of my espresso...
Whose existence
seems quite senseless
now that I think about it.
A Residue, Fom Me To You, a solution
that'll suffice, to a question vaguely queried...
our shared air feels nice.
These questions with their solutions, silly strings
of awkward queries, striving to chew corpulence
by conversing on...conundrums?...of quantifia...
Screw it. Her eyes are smiling.
Across the booth, I
come to. Fingertips fiddling
with mug, my eyes
smile back. We sink
into our booths,
conscious of each other.
A Residue From Me To You,
whose existence
seems quite senseless,
now that I think about it.