Cafe

I know if you were here beside me, we'd drink coffee with bald sugar sticks at its bottom. Days would pass idly and sat by the sea. I would read my book in hammocks while you fried fish and laughed at skiddish iguanas jangled on a hot tin roof.

Waking in Guatemala, on my birthday is pleasant and coffee scented. At 5 AM I was ready to press a cup to my lips, to call back memories we had no chance to make. I want to see the mountains that you too ached to archive in your laminates and dream photography, no roses grown here but instead great, green wings. I want you to smile upon me, not only inside of me, to practice the words I am only now bringing to my lips.

Still, I believe (although I do not know what I believe) that you have brought me here. And I imagine it another way, where you spice empanadas and link my arm into your own. I am glad I am here, and glad I am here for you, as a part of you, because my own green wings are those of rolling Rs, planted, harvested by your devotion.

There is nowhere I would rather be than in the silence and the sun that brings you forth as I best remember--as my mother best remembers too, knees high in the waves. Yet I am not letting you go, but rather letting myself taste what was and what I still wish for, however melocholy, restlessness that has left me raw.