You would order the same thing as always,
peanut butter on toast;
and tea.
You’d order the same for me.

Your hardened tanned skin,
your hair;
soft, curly, brown.
You would reach across the table,
dirt under your fingernails,
bruised knuckles,
your leather bracelet,
your favorite scratchy sweater,
and that old wooden guitar you took with you everywhere.

Maybe it’s the way you embodied everything I love,
your cinnamon smell,
your bear hugs holding me close,
the way your nose scrunched up like a rabbit’s when I kissed it.

Maybe it’s the way your brown eyes reminded me of chocolate,
or how you felt like a solid brick home.

Maybe that’s why the world went black,
not brown,
when you left.

I sit alone,
wooden table solid beneath my arms.

I drink coffee now,
with oatmeal on the side.