Iced tea with lemon

It is the desire to reach across the table that
destroys me.

At thirty,
when you have lost
the power of a hovering glance, and
you are sure that
you are better than
you have ever been,

the curious fuzz of
untested possibilities
hangs on the breeze like
dandelion fluff, and

the only thing more enticing than
a glass of iced tea on
a Chicago-humid afternoon is

the far side of the table or
the far side of the sea,
unexplored and smug,
coy with secrets,

and I am undone.

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