White fingers drum a rhythm on the side of a porcelain cup,
while afternoon sun drips through cloud banks outside.
I watch blue sky tremor on the tops of buildings
and remember when you had short hair that stood rigid
on the back of your neck like dead brambles.
Your eyes are still red and dry from hours of work at a computer.
My eyes still wander to the window.
The pattern tapped by your fingers pauses and they lift your cup
up to your raisined lips webbed with cracks.
I realize that it’s empty, that you drink out of repetition.
Our skin grinds like dust protesting our touch
parting ways with a brief embrace and
saying your name like a cry for water.
