away.

you lay everything
on the table,
the forks
used for piercing,
the spoons
for holding,
the knives
for cutting,
the bowls
from which you take
away all
the soup
that you ladle
carefully,
steaming
warm.
then the glasses
of wine,
filled to a
level below my heart,
clearer
sweeter
stronger.
i am ready.
i take my seat.
i hold the glass
and taste the wine.
yes,
sweet.
your eyes
find mine,
and i see,
yes
i do.
your hands
move away
from my fingertips,
sliding slowly back
across the tablecloth,
pushing a wave
in your direction.
your hands,
gliding
silently
softly
yet almost sorrily.
they trail down
to the edge,
the end
and stop.
my eyes
search for yours
a fleeting moment
is all you afford me
and in that quickly slow motion
your fingers collect together
sandwiching the cloth
and
fsh
is the sound
that comes before
the white rises and falls,
the solemn silver's clatter,
the porcelain's demise,
it is all that warns me
of the sweet
about to spill.