It had been a year since we’d seen each other last,
and of all places we decided to meet again at
a coffee shop.
A seemingly depressed (what did I know of psychology?) waitress asks
“What do you want?”
What do I want?
You ask as though it’s so simple.
I want to tell him he’s changed,
that the spark of his being had faded
and his skin had grown pale.
I want to tell him how I’ve changed, too,
of all the unfortunate events that
unravelled with his absence.
I want us to be the ‘April of last year’ us,
the star-crossed beings that encountered
the most innocent form of skinny love.
What do I want?
“I’ll have an espresso.”