I see you in the beginning of sunrises,
when we sit across from each other
at our glass-top table, trying to see our
reflections.

Did I ever tell you I hope you will put down
that newspaper, because I think it smells like glue,

and because I can't see you through the folds of black and white and wrinkled words.

There are stains on our table now
- faint rings, crusted remains even,
where spotless glasses once stood side by side

And between them, from the window, seeps in
just enough of a handful of sky.