I didn’t see it coming. My cup
was full and overflowing. You picked at
your food staring over my head
at the big screen in the corner playing
old movies to an empty café.
Mesmerized you watched scenes unfold
somewhere in the middle
of a conversation with no care for the person
in front of you. “It’s not you, it’s
me,” you said later, when it was all over.
It was easier over the phone. No
emotions; tears to wipe,
no scenes from a movie best left out. Just words,
impersonal, droned down the wire.
The coffee in my cup tasted bad,
end of a relationship before it
went sour like old milk way past its time.
Rust coffee, you joked one day
about the fungus infecting the
plantations far away. “You will not have
your coffee next year,” but
your smile didn’t reach your eyes. It hovered
at the corners of your lips and disappeared
embarrassed at being seen
in public. And that was it. You ran out faster
than the coffee. Sitting by my side on the drive
back home we spoke in silence.
The wind blew our words to the next town
where you will go to play the part all over again.
(Published in Berfrois –April 30, 2013, UK)