What isn't said

In a room stuffed to the seams 

with voices and dark corners,

I grip the pint glass

slipping in my sweating palms,

and concentrate my every fiber

on protecting the integrity

of that damn glass

from the magnet of harsh, sticky tile

three feet below.

He sits next to me

and I know him in his strangeness--

the way you know your college roommate's 

sister's boyfriend.

You know his name 

and maybe his age,

but not the song that starts off every

road trip mix he's ever made,

and not the name of his best childhood

four-legged friend,

and not the story he remembers

(the one that evokes shoulder-shaking

head-flung-back scrunchy-eyed delight)

when he finds

an old forgotten jersey of his favorite 

professional sports team

crumpled on the floor of his closet.

The little important things

that you don't know.

The space between his ear and mine

is full of what isn't said.  

And I wonder--

how many quiet encounters do we have left

before I find the courage

to ask?