Ghosting

I put the ceramic down on the wood,

then the other one, across the gap.

The steam from the soup

doesn't know it's only for me.

There is a space in the air

where someone else should be breathing,

the one who didn't lose the way

or forget how to keep their chin up.

I sit down and watch the second bowl

go cold in the half-light,

waiting for the other version of me

to finally pull up a chair.