The Catch

You were midway through a story about work,

leaning in over the steam of your tea.

A single eyelash had fallen from your lid

and landed just south of your left eye.

It looked like a tiny, ink-dark comma

on the pale map of your cheekbone.

I stopped listening to the plot of your day

and wondered if I should reach out and take it.

There is a specific sort of love in the seeing

of the small, stray things a person loses

while they are busy just trying to be heard

in a room that is finally going quiet.