"Hey, you're that poet babe..."

The first time I met him
was in the still of a Saturday night.
A street lamp lit path lead us to
fooling around in the back of
a cab and undoing buttons
just outside the school yard
'cross from my home.
The whiskey unlocked my door,
my ego allowed him to stay 'til morning
to then disappear unspoken into a candle-lit Sunday
but here we are,
under the buzzing fluorescence of convenience store lights.
He's digging in his pockets
for ancient conversation
as I fix my coffee, too heavy on the cream.
"It's Tiffany, right?"
I nod and head toward the counter but not before saying "Take care."
I think of all the silence that's gone out of the world,
all the conversations that have haunted me and those that have yet to do so.
I think of all the loud sex and quiet crying.
I think of  "Communication Breakdown" by Led Zepplin and get bored.
I pay for my coffee and step back into the night.