crossing, coffee.

by Michael King

white shirt on the
cranberry rug, i am
moved by the way your
eyes hold steady
while you’re listening,
hand over your story
in glimpses, pages
and pages that
lead to a makeshift
picnic on my apartment floor

how do we choose
which fragments of the
road behind us to
show one another, how
do we write a life
over the course of
a single coffee

i don’t know where
your eyes go when
the words dry up, don’t
know a single thing
about the next pages
you or i will write, but
i will sing gratitudes
for the way threads
line up and show
us small pieces of
each other
in the crossing.