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Oct 2019
I sit here, using the pen I stole to write this
And wonder if you see my face in the steam of your coffee
Like I hear your voice in the half-murmurs of everyone around me
I count 11 empty seats in this cafe and see your ghost in all of them
When I met you, you smelled like ground beans and woodsmoke
Velvet against my mouth, I had become addicted
To your taste, both bitter and sweet
I would cup your face in my hands and tell you
That there was more warmth here than any drink
Your hazelnut eyes crinkled and we would laugh
Throaty and dark, I melted into the hum of it
When you left me, every glass in the house shattered
I was made entirely of cracks, overfull and leaking
My heartbreak a great chip that grew only larger
We touched for the last time and I felt the fire of you
Found it scalding against my cheek
The whisper of a bonfire as you walked away
Only tar black and thick against my rasping throat
I choked on every memory of your lips
Still, sat here, in this room that is all you
Only 2 empty seats now, enough for us
Enough for our ghosts to laugh together
I pack away the books, the stolen pens
Leave my latte, grown colder now
Untouched
Georgia Marginson-Swart
Written by
Georgia Marginson-Swart  21/F/London
(21/F/London)   
190
     RC, Bogdan Dragos, Graff1980 and ---
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