The Glass (5)

An ignoramus may call it limerence, this state of care which
Regrets nearly bygone times, flowing through us,
Sits, watches, wonders, in this place where we saw life,
This pub we constantly refer to as home sweet home,
As she slowly lifts it to her lips, how
It will be possible to bear the absence of this all,
But a confidant would call it platonic love.
Taking a pen, handing me her pocket calendar,
She asks me to write down the date
On which I will return home.
It takes her a whole afternoon, emptying it –
With dilatory, saddening relish seeming sluggish to those around us –
But it feels so hasty to me, to her maybe
And they anyway are not expected to comprehend
The momentousness of this glass
Filled with still water
Not anymore.

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