Still Waiting

I sat alone at the bar where we used to meet,

ordered a beer I didn't want to drink.

The condensation beaded on the glass,

each drop a tiny weight

pulling itself down toward the ring it would leave

on the wooden table.

She was three states away by then.

Three years away, really.

But I kept my phone on the table anyway,

screen up, waiting for the light to change.

The water ran in streaks,

the glass slowly giving up its cold,

like the beer knew something I didn't,

like it was teaching me how to disappear.

I texted her the words I never sent.

My fingers moved through the dark.

The glass kept weeping on the wood.

That's what I remember most—

not the words, but the sound

of condensation falling,

the beer slowly learning

to let go.