Our Latte

Sometimes when I sit at our table in the coffee shop. I love to wonder, love to see you coming through the door like old days. With my espresso still warm and my eyes still looking for you when you wink at me from across the room. Tired from day’s work , I see you waiting in the queue. All this time looking at me like the moon stares at the stars. With your favourite latte you sit across. Still the same. Your signature casual look. The grey t-shirt and the washed denims, still my favourite. I see your phone light up but you ignore it and continue telling me how your day’s been. Somewhere in between the sips all of this still feels real. I almost stretch my hand to meet yours . But all that is there is wood. All that is there is emptiness and a strange feeling. I still look around the room to find you. Find you engrossed in your Mac just like the first time. I know you won’t come through that door and smile widely at me now. It’s stupid to order a latte for you and wait. It’s impossible to ever feel the essence of your cologne. For I do stretch out my hands just to grab the tissue, not your fingertips.
It’s almost finished my espresso. It’s almost finished our story.