Five days a week
   for six months now
I have crossed the street
   from work
to the little shop
   that sells sticky buns
pork nuzzled by pastry
   and perused the food
something for lunch
   and almost always pick
a baguette brimming with chicken
   chilled cucumber disks
a sprinkling of lettuce
   plus a muddy-coloured latte
for that extra afternoon kick

though today is different
   I’m feeling ruthless
a shimmery packet of salt and vinegar
   waits for me to pluck it
from the shelf
   squeak it open
the lady says hi and I reply
   with a we’ve spoken
five days a week for six months now
   and it’s about time I told you
these small encounters
   brighten my day
a rotten cliché I know
   so I leave quick with my grub
but a tiny grin on my face

unwrap the baguette
   take a satisfying bite

I thought having this done would change me. But, all I have understood now is that I made a scar to myself, a scar that would always remind me that I was so deeply into someone and it was gone. I thought it would make a change in my life, a new beginning. Instead, I would always be reminded of what happened because of this. Thus, this would always be a part of my story, a story to be told to someone who would accept me and would wait for me whatever it takes to be by my side.