153: Until the Toilet Door Opens

It's not like we're doing anything extraordinary. In fact, I'd like to think that we're doing something extremely un-extraordinary. Standing in the queue at the back of the café, we're both waiting for the toilet. You lean against the wall, smiling, saying something about the people you're living with now, and I hear the words but can't process them because you're here and real and even in the shitty single spotlight six feet behind us you're more real than you've been in weeks and months of quarantine and isolation and lockdown and moving and pandemic and I want to stare and stare and never stop staring because you're glowing with flushed cheeks and bright eyes that never leave mine and the toilet can go to Hell for all I care so long as I get to drown in your eyes and have you looking at me like this, so close that if I lift a hand it will brush your arm and shoulder and no screen between us no crackly line or faulty Wi-Fi or parents or siblings walking in to steal your eyes and laughter even though my chest swelled with warmth when I saw you interact with them and now you've stopped talking but I can't make myself break the silence even when your eyes are still on mine and I hope that you're devouring my face with the same disbelief with which I'm devouring yours because your expression looks so familiar and I LOVE YOU in so much more and so much less than three words because it's too much and too little and if God is real and listening he will make the world stop so I can stand in the toilet-queue staring at you and having you stare back at me for the rest of eternity.

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Written by: Anonymous

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Publisher's note: Please note that all poetry published with Eudaemonia Records has been seen by our editors, and that the editors have suggested revisions where they see fit, but we believe that it is ultimately the writer's decision to accept or reject any suggestions and take no responsibility for which suggestions they accept or reject.