A little death occurs
each time I pass by
our usual café
You, cutting the flesh
from another fruit
my shirt rolled,
Up as you read my
lifeline as I began
to understand why
Your hands trembled
without something
or someone to hold,
Call it nostalgia:
but that someone
might have been me,
These fears knew
just how much
you meant to me
A little death occurs
each time I pass by
our usual café.
67paintings 