You aren’t coming,
There I said it, now it’s real.
No one wept except for
my iced tea sweating off
on to my forearm
drawing the trajectory of a future
that’s now as much a stranger to me
as the man sitting to my left.
A book in my hand
I fidget with my glass with the other
Glancing at the door
Every time a stranger walks in.
Folks come and go
But none of them is you.
They know me here now
Every Sunday morning
When I enter they smile
They know what I want for breakfast…