I remember sitting cross-legged
in the backyard with you,
stringing dandelions together
and lazily strumming my guitar
while you rested your head
on my thigh last summer.
I sang soft melodies
and you dreamt that time stopped
and we left this town together. . .*

but alas.

You're too practical,
and I'm too scared,
so here we go again.

This time, her apology came in the form
of a caramel macchiatto
on a Tuesday morning.
No words:
just scalding coffee and gritted teeth
received by timid fingers
and pursed lips.

And it was enough for me,
until I realized that
all the sugar packets in the state
couldn't sweeten her words
or soothe my burnt tongue.