Tabled

It's a strange thing to be sometimes able
To observe as if 'twere second-hand
Myself, now seated at this little table
Waiting for the company to stand.
I feel removed, aloof, detached from these
As if my life were played by other faces;
I touch the surface of my life, not seize
The deep emotions - and whatever traces
Of my connection to my flesh remain
Are wafted off by wonder. I am free
Of that which weighs me down - or else insane -
But happier than I am usually
Because these moments are but to prepare
For later, when the one I love is there.