coffees for closure
sitting at the window of your favourite café —
well, that one, or one exactly like it —
waiting,
people-watching, eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations:
trying to guess which couples are
just friends
four-year lovers
on a first Tinder date
or, like us, shortly, breaking up.
waiting,
savouring the
smells of roasting arabica, of baked delectables;
the warmth,
the noise;
these last few moments before you arrive
when I’m alone, and we’re still together.
shortly you will walk in
and, after a hug, a bite, and a cuppa,
you will deliver the three-minute speech
that you are no doubt rehearsing right now
in your Uber.
you will mumble the words into your chest,
into the table, into your mug —
into any where but my eyes.
I will smile, and, not understanding, say
‘I understand’.
you will smile, relieved, not sorry, say
‘I’m sorry’.
we’ll exchange some awkward small talk
then, as soon as the expedient presents itself,
you, my erstwhile favourite person in the whole world,
will rise to leave, a stranger.
you texted me
‘let’s meet in person, for closure.’
well, let me tell you a secret
there is no such thing —
‘closure’ is just a lie invented by the Latte Industrial Complex
to make us buy coffee
