Poetry | Life | Lonely | Relationships | San Francisco
Table For Two
Alone in San Francisco
Sitting at a small round table in the window of a San Francisco restaurant, not exactly a vanishing point.
Outside, evening descends upon Polk Street; neon lights over shop windows glow, painting the city in luminiferous colour while being lulled into another night's pensive sleep, trams singing a strained lullaby.
On the table is a basket of bread.
My crumpled coat occupies the seat where you should be.
Friendship is not a substitute for loving someone. I have never been in love more than now, and the San Francisco rain comes down like tears.
I shouldn’t be able to look out to the street; my eyes shouldn’t be looking to the neon signs above shop windows but across the table, into your eyes.
Perhaps I shouldn’t miss you this much…
But I do.
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