and looking up
I see them across
the café at a corner
table she her head in
her hands he stricken
motionless
looking at me
an intruder having
blundered my way into
this moment ashamed
at their indecency
I look elsewhere and try
to close the door
against swells of
despair surging through the
rich scented air cinnamon
rolls fresh from the oven hot
coffee steamed milk
but eyes drawn
as if to a strange insect
I find they have
not moved
nor do they
until some while later
having drained my cup I
look up to find they
are gone
(c) 2013, by Hannah Six
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