[title subtitle=”lines: Bryce Albertson”][/title]
In a corner booth, we sit
side by side,
thighs touching,
both glancing nervously
toward a manic buzzing trapped
between the seat and window,
fearful
of the wasp that brings us closer
unknowingly
for the last time
before the waitress kills it
as our way of showing thanks
for this gift of one last perfect,
imperfect moment
to savor together
in disquieted delight.