At The Café

We would take the table

by the window

with the people passing by

the chosen café



and we would order coffee; might

ponder on the possibility 

of cake, but later change our minds

in favour of some gentle conversation.



And we wouldn't squabble 

like an ancient married couple 

about the offered coffee,  

our gazes hithering around 



the place - from dancing lights

to blood thick painted frames

of windows where the people

passing by became more fascinating 



by the rallentando minutes,

us longing to escape -

be on our way back home to sameness.

No, we wouldn't wish 



to fall so far apart -

our hands forever strangers,

fingers never laced,

eyes too dim to glance



across the table, savouring

our blooming warmth. Our cheeks

would never lose their roses

and we would not forget



to laugh as if tomorrow 

might not come at all.   But

there stands the table 

where the bloody people pass on by



draped in foil - too shocked 

to talk as sirens split the night

just like the shattered window

of the chosen café.