You were already gone when I arrived.
Only the saucer remained,
a ring of coffee,
and a postcard of Montmartre,
half-written in a language I did not know.
I read the curves of ink
as if they were hills to climb—
the steepness, the tilt,
the longing smudged at the edge.
Outside, the waiter shrugged.
People hurry through lives
they don’t realize are colliding.
I pocketed the card.
It travels with me still,
a stranger’s voice
folded into mine.
