Adjustment

The coffee is bitter, the diner is bright,

and you reach for their glass with a habit so deep.

You move like a ghost in the middle of night,

guarding a secret you no longer keep.

There’s a thread on their shoulder, a small, silver stray,

and you pluck it away with a thumb and a grace

that you used to offer to me in the day

before you decided to leave this old place.

Three mugs on the table, three spirals of steam,

losing their heat to the fan overhead.

We’re sitting right here in the middle of a dream,

but only the two of you share the same bed.