She walks in, just like she did that last time,
but now it's different.
Circumstances have changed
and you're not prepared for this encounter.
You find yourself
wishing you were sitting
somewhere less conspicuous,
somewhere more designed for
a quick and painless get-away.
But you're not,
and it's too late to leave
without it being obvious.
She smiles,
and you smile back politely,
embarrassed by your weakness,
by the shortness of the leash you're on,
by something
that never quite happened.

You're not unique.
Even now, as you watch her
slip through your fingers
again
[calloused, numb
and out of touch
with everything that isn't soil or vegetation],
knowing it didn't have to be like this
[all it would have taken was
a single leap of faith,
a word or touch or look
that could have opened],
feeling that dull, familiar tug
[the harness tightens;
your wife calling you home
as though she knows],
that sad, flat taste on your tongue
is in a million other mouths tonight,
as others watch
with a detached kind of regret,
the spectacle
of something not quite happening.

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