Between Here and There

The coffee shop behind me already

feels like yesterday, your laugh

still ringing in my head

while I step over puddles.

I wanted to tell you about

the dream I had, the one where

we were kids again, making

blanket forts in the living room

and thinking we had forever.

My phone buzzes. Probably work,

maybe sister asking about dinner,

maybe nothing at all.

I ignore it.

There's a notebook in my back pocket,

empty pages waiting for something

worth remembering. Later

I might write about this moment,

how the air feels

when you're carrying half-finished

conversations around with you.

A car honks down the block.

Someone's radio drifts through an open window,

playing something, I thought I knew

back in high school.

The crosswalk light turns orange,

then red, then goes dark.

I keep walking anyway,

past the place where

we had that terrible fight,

past the bench where you sat

crying that awful day.

Everything around here holds

pieces of us, dropped like coins

from a torn pocket.

Maybe that's fine.

Maybe I'm figuring out

how to live with all these question marks.