by Jennifer Potter
Clutching at cold tea,
Recalling regurgitated emotion.
A toast to our former selves,
Sipping to transfer sentiment,
Ease past pain.
Each taste transporting to a coffee shop
Artificially lit: maroon and sawdust and stilted conversation
With a cup cradled in my hands like a shield,
Anticipating effort echoing in emptiness.
Every swallow swills around the mouth:
Careful reminiscence of a pivotal dependence,
A visceral commemoration of spring.
