Two glasses. They sit on my table, my brown table, the table that used to be new, new to me now after years of separation, suddenly restored, a new plug in an old socket that recognizes its shape but not its scent.
I smell the the graphite, school time, gasoline, our old bronze Audi, copper on my fingers, fingers once stubs, stubs once atoms, still atoms, always atoms. Copper on my fingers, green rings from silver ones, jewels in their centers, in their cores, in.
Shining, like they’re half real, like I’m half real, but the shine is real, I am real. If I can smile, aren’t I happy, isn’t the jewel real, does it not shine?
I am. I truly am.
The water in the glass shines, I drink its shine, I shine too. You are one glass, I am the other. I can almost reach out, grab your arm, see you, know you. But there are atoms between us, this brown table, an impenetrable distance. In the end, we are.
Two glasses.
– Pihu J.