Everything from a distance

this way we're almost sitting in a living room,
our benches on the pier and the sea like 
a coffee table between the both of us,
only glasses with straws are missing
to suck life through.

there's is nothing that makes me reach for your hand,
nothing that makes me put my trembling fingers on your lips
or go through your hair.

the reason is in suitcases
at my feet, heavy and clumsy.
I struggle with them, but 
I wouldn't want to be somewhere else right now.

you know nothing about the living room 
and the suitcases full of objections, 
it's the wind 
that touches your hand and lips and
messes up your hair.

still you move your lips
to say:
'hey, that's enough'.