You order the same thing

You order the same thing.

I order the same thing.

We sit in the same booth

where the stain on the table

has grown in the same direction

as the year went.

The coffee rings on the rim

like they were never meant to fade,

like they're the only real thing

in this place that keeps changing

while staying exactly the same.

You ask about work.

I give you the answer I gave

last year, last month,

the one that fits the question,

that fills the space,

that doesn't require anything new.

The pause comes.

I know when the pause comes now.

It comes after the third sip,

right when you reach for the sugar

that's already in the bowl,

right when the background noise

of the diner swells and then fades

like a held breath.

I could say something different.

I could stand up.

I could spill the coffee

and watch it spread across the stain

like it's being claimed by something larger,

like the table is finally finishing

what it started a year ago.

But I don't.

We sit. The coffee gets cold.

The stain stays the same.

And I'm thinking about next year,

about whether I'll recognize myself

in this booth again,

whether you will,

whether anything moves when nothing

seems to move at all.