We sit, a wooden table between us, vast and selfish.
Our language barrier.
I sat here a few weeks ago, poetry on hand and words frothing
at my mouth, heart-sobs without a heart.
Once every few years we sit here and each time
I'm the one waiting; yet not for you.
You see me, no specific features,
but slender curves and somewhat of a quirky charm,
breasts that contort just for your palms.
I see your lips - shadows that were on me once.
And we talk about the past year, few years,
coffee shop banter with heavy undertones along with
heavy implications.
We ignore those and focus on the banter and
try so hard to ignore...
Fire gazes, leg grazes,
fingers shooting flames and
scented oil.
Mouth singing of acid jazz and
silver SUVs and deserted
parking lots at sunset...
None matter. You're shed of that coat, but
not the present memory.
We part.
You go home and you burst, messy and quick.
You make love to her on the bed I lay in once,
fucking her, knowing you loved me first.
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