The seats we sat on,
mine precariously, cross-legged but not comfortably,
balancing the weight of something both new and nostalgic,
the way you took off your denim jacket,
the way you fidget with your wristbands out of habit.
The cups we drank from,
yours plastic, mine ceramic.
I think they sensed the flush from our skin
when the ice in yours melted,
no attention paid to how they tasted.
We all knew, me and you didn’t show up for the coffee.
The ground we walked on,
mindless pacing yet purposeful.
Were our steps in time,
following the trail of crumbs through our past lives?
I’ll mark each stop with a cross,
treasuring the map that sends us round and round in buried circles.