a memory dressed as the present
The skewer burned in my hand,
but it was your laugh that stung—
rising like smoke,
curling into the hollow I thought was healed.
The coffee was cold in my grip,
and in that chill I felt it all—
how once was now unreachable,
how your warmth belonged elsewhere.
The street was loud, yet I heard only us,
a memory dressed as the present—
for one breath, I believed
the past had come back to hold me.