She Says “A Residue from Me to You” Could Suffice as a Good Poem Title

A Residue, From Me To You, she suggests with a smile

That’s eclipsed by fingertips, which stifle up her (no

words could describe her laugh, I’ve tried). But it still slips up,

steam from a cup, that safe-keeps remnants of my espresso.

Whose existence

seems quite senseless

now that I think about it.

A Residue, From Me To You, a solution

that’ll suffice, to a question vaguely queried

our shared air feels nice.

These questions with their solutions, silly strings

of awkward queries, striving to chew corpulence

by conversing on, conundrums? of quantifia…

Screw it. Her eyes are smiling.

Across the booth, I

come to. Fingertips fiddling

with mug, my eyes

smile back. We sink

into our booths,

conscious of each other.

A residue from me to you,

whose existence

seems quite senseless,

now that I think about it.