A planter box grows succulents
In our old space
Every week, we’d sit there
Pouring out our souls, blending them together
You drank your coffee with ice
Mine was too hot to hold without a sleeve
I remember the butterflies
They capered when you slid your fingers into mine
When you bought the perfect muffin
And didn’t have to ask me which one I wanted
On the days when the air was bright and sharp and cold
I would lean into you and you would smile
Hold me close and wrap your hands around mine
And my coffee would keep our fingers warm
thefinchmagazine.wordpress.com 