I came here to talk about love and those broken years we stayed apart.
We were sisters back then, giggling over two cups of coffee.
Now we are strangers to our newfound intricacies,
staring into the frothy abyss.
I want to tell you about the times I thought of calling you.
Could my words be a salve on our fracture?
A bandage between our past and future?
We are silent for a moment as the girl places a malcontent order,
full of demands, and then regrets over what she did not add to her latte.
I am full of the empty space you left in my heart those years ago.
Our bond was born from the tragedy of September 11.
You knew what to say to me as if we had been childhood friends.
You picked me up off the floor as I wept over a broken marriage.
You cheered me on as I returned to fix it.
You rushed to my aid as I had three kids.
I tried to fill your heart with the things it might be missing.
Then all that business about nothing ground us to dust.
And our friendship became the tragedy,
replacing the one from which our sisterhood was born.
Now here we sit on an overstuffed couch, a fine mist of milk in the air,
surrounded by people in search of Saturday’s buzz.
I came here to talk about love. I came here to love you again.
1 thought on “Saturday at the Blue Owl”
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