I am like the others
in this coffee shop
private worlds wrapped in skin
sipping and typing
careful not to make eye contact
and risk the poke of questions
the theft of time
the nuisance of somebody wanting in
yet if you were here
you would be that face
leaning over to ask about his book
to play peek-a-boo with her baby
to commiserate with everyone
about the cold chairs
and I forget every time
how it goes
once the membrane of solitude
is pierced
how quickly people soften
and stitch their story into yours
how we guard our aches like prizes
and walk like lonely people
hoping nobody notices our limp.