We were friends again.
Just friends.
We sat, every Sunday morning,
(I work Saturdays)
in a diner.
You leaned over
the black hole
of your coffee,
pouring milk,
creating a galaxy
of bitter sugar.
You looked up to me,
who was just watching,
and said something,
probably nothing.
The comfortable space
between us smelled like
leather booths and orange juice
and small family restaurants and
scrambled eggs.
We got in your car
littered with what made
you, well, you.
I rode shotgun.