A glance bounces off the window

As my reflection keeps my company

A muted blue swallows the sky outside

I have my choice of seats

There is no comfortable spot left

The waiter stopped asking for refills hours ago

The ice in their waters has melted

Their cups overflow without thirst

The sutro expanded like steam

Once there were breaths

Now it’s just the fog left behind

My coffee has grown cold

It’s time to pay the bill

Reservation for four, dinner for one

sutro (n, coined): the hollowness of a space still shaped by whoever last left it. Derived from utsuro (虚ろ: hollow, empty) and Sutro Baths.

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