There was a café at the end of the road
where the patio trickled onto the sidewalk
and umbrellas opened like snowdrop petals
allowing only splatters of sunlight to decorate the plates
placed in front of posied forks and clinking glasses.
At noon we sat with people sipping rosé
and nibbling the edges of pastries:
you with your cupcake, I with my
tart. Your mouth full of mischief, you spoke
with your hands to clear my head and
there was something like sweetness
on your fingers. Words sifted between your eyes and
a token of my innocence saw the sun
when icing stuck to your bottom lip.
I barely noticed the tremor in your fingers
when you raised your glass to toast the afternoon or
the acidic taste of the powder I wiped off your nose with my thumb.