Fallen

The diner’s air is thick with grease and salt.

You’re talking through the clatter of the spoons,

blaming the waitress for the noise, the fault

of a morning that ended way too soon.

I’m not listening to the words you say.

I’m watching a dark, curved line of hair

resting on your cheek in a quiet way,

a tiny suture holding something there.

It’s loose, a fallen lash, a stray bit of you

I have no right to reach across and brush.

We’re finished with the things we used to do,

sitting in the center of the rush.