What if ten years from now,

I run into you in a cafe?

My heart races and my palms sweat,

I am overwhelmed by everything

I wanted to say to you,

the words never make it to my tongue.

Your hair is longer than you’ve ever worn it before

and you’re vegan now.

But you still drink your coffee in gulps of three

and you still bite your lip when you’re deep in thought

and your eyes still narrow down to slits when you smile.

What if ten years from now,

I run into you in a cafe?

I tell you that I have a drawer full of postcards

I wrote to you from every place I went to,

and that I’ve saved ticket stubs from all our metro rides,

and that everyday for the last 10 years,

I’ve been sighing over my morning brew

because the coffee never makes me feel as heady

as the taste of your cappuccino stained lips

from that last breakfast before we said goodbye.

What if ten years from now,

I run into you in a cafe?

You say that you still dream of me sometimes,

that happiness is simply a kind of decision

and that no complication we’d every come across

compares to that of not being with each other.

What if ten years from now,

I run into you in a cafe?

This time, would I ask you to stay?

And if I do,

would you?