after Room in New York, by Edward Hopper
We are not together,
although we insist on this room.
You are there,
plinking keys behind me,
tuneless, just distraction.
You say that you don’t understand,
why this two feet between us happened.
You think I’ve forgotten, but I have not.
I wish I didn’t know where we’re going,
but I do, and because of that I will admit
(although not yet) that I know
why you hate this newspaper
(and need to talk about that dress.)
If I were being fair, I would be urgent
to answer. If some word, some glance,
some touch would return us.
Once, I could’ve lived on the taste
of your lipstick.
But, we’ve worked at this too,
at this distance.
I know exactly how far it is.
Another man, sitting where I am,
could reach out his hand.
He could put down this paper, and you
could play something beautiful.