Your Answer

I’ve created this conversation
In my mind
Countless times
With nothing between us
But a table.

I’ve imagined everything:
The way you now wear your hair
Your simple black dress
Your nails
Even the gloss on your lips.

I never know how it begins
So I begin somewhere
In the middle.

I resist asking the one thing
That would expose me
As self-concerned:
Do you ever think of me?

But our conversation never completes.
It just seems to fade.

Maybe our conversation never concludes
Because I know the answer
To my unasked question.

And your answer is the one thing
I don’t really
Want to know.