foot paused mid-tap.
His breath’s on hold. His pulse, too.
All of it’s waiting on me,
scared that even breathing
will break whatever brought me here.
Like if he moves, I’ll disappear.
His face is statue?—
longing caught in a photograph.
Jaw locked, his eyes sinking
andsinking
and crushing my chest.
And it’s like I’m standing here, in front of him,
falling.
Even so, my heart’s on its hands and knees,
crawling toward him with or without me.
I walk closer, not letting go of his stare,
stopping a few feet from his table.
He turns in his barstool, throat bobbing,
still in the way storms are
right before they break?—
quiet, holding everything in his chest.
I nudge my chin at the second coffee cup.
“You waiting on someone?”
His shoulders collapse,
the weight of twenty-eight nights
finally sliding off him.
His brows lift, wrecked,
and he gestures toward me.
A breath finally leaves him, a little torn.
“Been waitin’ for you this whole time.”
