If this were about ten months ago, I’d be the one sitting across from you,
looking at your smile from across the paint-stained table.
You’d be interested in my words.
You’d nod and maybe laugh.
I’d look at you with open eyes, trying not to smile too much and trying not to talk too little.
Or maybe I’d be sitting next to you, legs touching beneath that same table.
But instead I’m sat across the room at a different crayon-coated table with a view of the back of your head and your dark blue button up.
I bet they aren’t looking into your eyes the way I would.
I wonder if you’re thinking about our legs touching,
about being so close again that when one of us walked away, we’d still remember the scent.
But no,
there you are, back to me, conversing and looking into eyes that aren’t mine.
You don’t want to be looking into mine, I’m sure.
You’re probably thinking about the awkward tension that I wished our hands touching might end.