Step into the glass doors,
into a room filled with faces buried
in books. Lips covering steaming cups
of roasted Arabica with kisses.
Enter into a space that you can easily call
“My own”. If not for the joint whispers
of jazz and new hellos. Of old friends
asking, “How do you do?”
and the scent of cinnamon lingering – stay,
but only for a while. Until you see nothing
but the dregs, that not even your tongue could reach.
Leave when the heat fades,
before your hands grow numb with the cold –
before water replaces what once was
sweet, leaving you with bitterness.
An aftertaste. But do not haste.
Do not rush to head off to meetings
you would attend to with your eyes
closed and your thoughts back to that
moment: where the chance of stares enough
to light a spark that could last – maybe
for a lifetime – would meet.
But you missed in just a flicker.