What We Might Have Written

I sit close enough to hear

the sweet symphony of two strangers—

a conversation blooms,

tales of venues and colors,

as I sip my too-hot coffee, it scalds,

a hot tiptoe between wish and ache,

you were supposed to be here,

a partner in planning.

Every excited word tumbles,

a crumpled napkin flies,

ideas spilled like reckless dreams,

list after list of whims unfulfilled,

a laugh ricochets, pushes me back,

reminds me how love dances

a rhythm I can't join.

These aren’t our notes,

just the fresh ink of someone else’s future,

but they pierce like small, bright arrows—

what I never wrote, what remains unsaid,

a laundry list of moments lost,

in a cafe, quiet, mug in hand—

where our plans folded neatly,

gone, like a fleeting glance.