That encounter at Starbucks.

A hot cup against nervous hands
keeps me acutely aware that my heart is panicking.
I've had you in my arms a hundred times,
Said more that a million words,
But when you walk in the door,
You're suddenly too cool for me.

I stare at my cup, my hands.
They're no help. They're on your side.
My conscience tells me that this is a mistake.
I calmly tell it to fuck off.

My mother warned me about this.
Probably where my conscience got the idea.
We both know she never liked you.
"Don't take two steps back."
But no one hopes for relapse.

Without making eye-contact, you're in front of me.
The scene is familiar.
But everything is different because I know that the hands holding your drink have held someone else's.

Do fingertips leave fingerprints on fingers?
I swear that I could see them.
But she wasn't in your eyes.

"I still love you" flew from my lips like duct tape ripped from a hostage's mouth.
And just like that, I left everything to you;
My nerves, my patience, my passion, and my hope.
It was yours and I wanted it back.
Because all of a sudden my conscience and my mother made sense.

I'm only telling you this so you can let go of the sick satisfaction of breaking my heart.
I did that myself.
One afternoon at Starbucks.