I used to swear I’d never
sit on the same side of the restaurant booth as you
or anyone for that matter
I’ve always equated it
to shining a spotlight
on they who choose to sit like that
a bright bulb on the couple
who can’t be apart from each other
long enough to finish a meal
-but on a sunday night in a deli
where the only lovers
are over the age of sixty-seven
I decide I can make an exception
because it would be a mistake
to not want to sink next to you
as you eat matzoh ball soup for the first time
and this way I have a closer hand
to both yours and the food I know
you won’t finish
-with this view we make a drive-in
out of the dinner
the rest of the patrons, a scene
for us to watch in unison
smiling as
we enjoy the lack of
space between our beings
-this closeness
is a privilege I used to shake my head at
mock in disgust before I knew how it was
to be this content with someone
it’s an easy thing to dismiss a sort of happiness
before you understand it
but there is certainly a kind of
magic that comes with a lack of

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