Table in the front row

You looked over me like my mother reading inklines hidden behind my silence. In my head the thoughts make so much noise that I hear nothing. And you left me there on that chair, staring at the ice melting in a glass. The ice, too, now tastes of lemon, like the candies you ate when you were a child.

Will it be enough turning around, will it be enough walking two steps behind to hide the words dying on my lips? And you ask me if I want to be carried up the stairs and I understand I have to pick up my things. The screen lights up one last time. It's here my ride home.

We were wrong at the right time. I guess everything comes with an expiration date.