His breath mingles
with the steam from his coffee.
Across the table
she stirs her tea
remembering the way the words
used to flow so easily
smooth and fast
and perfectly understood.
And how he brick by brick
built a dam
one "sure" and "yeah" and "idc" at a time
leaving her on read for days
which to her seemed an eternity
She used to love him
maybe she still does
yet the feeling of dread
and quiet, damp sadness
is something she cannot bring herself to shove away.
What if, in finding hope,
she unearths some long-forgotten pain?
These days she doesn't cry over him
just thinks of what could've been
if they had been different people.