6AM, fragile morning air
whispers of fall.
orange hue, honey’s dew
my lungs breathe in
the crack of crème brûlée
nestled in the back of my throat
sweet, burnt
sun, rising
the cafe ’round the corner
he’s smiling at her
behind the counter
he imagines tucking her wisps
behind her ears, she
pours frothed milk
white ribbons
holding back a yawn
“Keep the change,”
“see you at lunch,”
the softest exchange
familiar faces for another time
When the sun has woken up too,
he’s mustered the strength
to ask if he can
see her again
in the evening.
davidbruceblog #2 