Glass Half Somewhere

You left the chair pushed back at the angle people leave chairs when they plan to come back — you were always good at staging. The cushion held your shape for about an hour, then it forgave you faster than I would have. Did the door feel different from the other side, or does it only stick for the ones who stay? So where'd you set it down, the glass half somewhere — did you finish what you started or just find a different table? Did you order something lighter? Did the new room pour it the way I would have? Your fingerprint's still on the rim, a whorl going nowhere. The candle burned past where you lit it, past the hour you named, past the version of tonight you sold me at eight. I'd ask if you could hear this but you never left a forwarding address, and you were always more the type to leave a dent. So where'd you set it down, the glass half somewhere — did you find a better question or just someone who won't ask one? Did you order what you wanted? Did the new room know your name the way this counter knows your elbow? The booth still smells like your conviction — that cedar thing you wore on days you'd decided. I could clear the seat. I could push the chair back in and let the geometry forget you. But the table's set for two and I have always been the one who does the math. So where'd you set it down, the glass half somewhere — did the next room ask how you take it or did you just take what was there? Did you tell them that you're staying? Did you mean it this time? Did your hands know what to...