I met you by the low road

where the grass bends.
You said nothing fancy,
only my name,
as if it had always been there.

You asked if I still lived
where the door stitches.
You asked if I still lived
where the grass is bent.
I said yes.

We stood by the ditch 

that never fills,
and the river before us
could never be crossed.

So tell me,
Tell me to set the table for two,
and not to notice which chair
stays empty.

Tell me to pour the cup to the rim,
to believe for a moment
it was not meant for one.

Ask me to make a place in my heart,
and let it not be filled by any other