CRIMSON PASSION

We sit as people pass,
smiling across the table,
eyes locked.

My knee is pressing
against his knee,
as if to say, “Not yet, my love.”

We wait for time to pass,
yet it rewinds, pauses,
shocks our senses.

The silverware rusts,
the vase fractures as
the obese flower droops.

We linger, if only waiting
for that white table cloth
to stop its fluttering,

becoming
motionless.