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.