Without you, the morning sunlight
would illuminate my reading and coffee.
Some new man would appear,
warming up your old spot to my left.
He could help me
take the AC out of my window in November
and put it back by May.
He could cook with me
and call just to say hello.

Without me,
you would tell your friends
a vague version of events,
buy some new woman a second drink,
and I could imagine
not wishing it was still me.
Time would mold this
into something that makes sense,
our hot nights becoming just
neon flickering in my memory.

Instead, we break our silence, get a drink.
Our knees touch under a pub table.
I tell you I need more, touch your shoulder.
You say you’re scared, buy me another drink.
You smile, sweet moment,
where honey is a lasting adhesive.