Home with Her
I walked into the café
and there you were—
blonde hair twisted into a bun,
leather jacket still on,
like you’d only stopped in for a minute
before heading back to work.
You looked up and smirked,
already knowing I’d be late.
Because you knew me.
You stood,
pulled me into your side,
held me like I had always belonged there.
I still remember
the scent of your cologne.
Your wallet was already out
before I could ask if you were paying.
Coffee between us,
me spilling fragments
of the year I survived without you.
Then the glance at your watch.
The soft smile.
Your fingers pushing a curl from my eyes
the way they always did.
You could tell I was sad.
Could tell I didn’t want you to leave.
So you lifted my chin
and told me
wherever I go,
I’m still home with her.
A kiss against my forehead
like I was a child again.
And I swear
I could feel the warmth and heartbreak
colliding inside my chest
as I watched you walk out the café door.
Then I woke up—
alone in my room,
carrying the ache
of a wound that only grows louder with time,
longing for a mother
who only exists inside my head.