It’s just a chair.
You talked and I listened
mostly, though I watched as much
as I heard. Your eyes and hands
are so eloquent.
You sat mostly still, though I squirmed
imagining how we’d fit in that chair.

A generous bit of planning
that furniture maker had, though
it seems there was a “higher” purpose
for such a piece lovingly carved,
though I can think of no higher purpose
than what we are.

Later, when I think back, I wonder
how the pieces of conversation will fit:
patterns, emotions, history, the way
light hit your face, our laughter, the way
my toes curled at your gaze
as I talked, knowing you really heard me.
You were almost regal in that chair
and I felt like I was in a genie’s lamp,
ready to be dusted off and unleashed.
Was this just another daydream?


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