Giraffe | NaPoWriMo #1

We find ourselves
in chairs
comfortable,
near enough to feel his knees,
his breath.
We watch one another,
with eyes 
full 
of all the faces 
aside from the one before us. 
But still,
we change the scene,
and draw
our mouths 
up towards 
eyes
trying to 
uncrack stiff faces so that
something, anything, will happen.
Until, 
the waiter arrives.
And they inform me they can 
only offer me a 
salad,
as if my small neck
could extend to the tallest branch,
grazing on the tree that had grown
from this table.  

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