My coffee's getting cold. I've been staring out of the window, watching the people pass me by, searching for your face in a sea of strangers. Meet me here next year in October, you said.
"I'll be better."
"I'll know what I want."
"I'll come back to you."
While I kept this phrase, this promise, close to my heart, you forgot about it. While I've been counting down the days ever since summer's faded, ever since the sun's begun to set sooner in the evening, you never seemed to care that you gave me hope. That you gave me strength to hold on to this illusion, this pathetic scenario of falling like the leaves do. I've been walking past this coffee shop every day, not sure when you'd show up. If you'd show up at all, if it's today or in two weeks. I believed that eventually you would come back to what you need. I thought the time for running was over. Did you ever learn to stand still, to settle? Did you learn to enjoy the certainty of stagnation, the peace that only comes with knowing you can go back home whenever you've lost your way? I want to be mad at you, but I can't be. You filled me up with promises until I couldn't breathe, but I draw the line at calling you out for being scared. I swore I would never do that. We can't help what life and circumstance shapes us into.
They're turning off the lights. The waitress asks me if I'm okay, if I want to take my coffee home. I tell her I'll be back tomorrow, same place, same time. She shoots me an encouraging smile, but I can tell she thinks I'm a lost cause. I hope tomorrow will be the day you remember last fall.
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