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The Glass (3)

You may call it love, this state of care which
Regrets nearly bygone times, flowing through us,
Sits, watches, wonders, in this place where we saw life,
This pub we like to call home seet home,
As she slowly lifts it to her lips, how
It will be possible to bear the absence of this all.
Taking a pen, handing me her pocket calendar,
She asks me to write down the date
On which I will return to my old life.
It takes her a whole afternoon, emptying it –
She sips, seemingly slow surely to the people around us,
But it feels so hasty to me, to her maybe.
They are not expected anyway
To understand
The importance
Of this glass filled with water
Not anymore.

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