Whisper it.
Like fingers tracing cotton.
Whisper the gentle scratches of pen on paper. Percussive poetry to punctuate the moments. All written down and tucked in pockets to be read and recited.
Read and forgotten.
But still that single look lingers on.
From across the ceramic mug, hot with sweet tea and fortune telling leaves.
Framed by late morning light.
Wrapped in billows of steam.
I was too young to know then what I know now.
We write our own future.