Our Usual Café

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.

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