I named her Africa #Wattys2015

[eighteen]

It was the clatter of plates, maybe
the forks being set, old bread being
replaced and fresh coffee being served.
Potted lavenders being arranged,
croisants beside piles
of goods in display.

Maybe I blame that or maybe I blame
those minimal strands of auburn hair that sliced and tucked at your burgundy lipstick,
how you would suck your
lips in and then purse them out.

Or I could blame it on myself
for not being familiar with a girl
who wanted me, as well.

All I know is at some point
I felt overwhelmed by it all,
the rush for your touch was
the only gentleness I prayed for
comfort.

I didn't mind if my fingertips were
rusted with coffee grounds, or if
my palm still hosted bread crumbs,
I reached out my hand across the table,
and you squeezed it but proved me wrong.
My mind was spiraling,
my heart, unstable.