3:39 a.m.

How many times will you and I meet here?

We look exhausted under this neon glow

Golden against red leather booths our

black coffees cooling on ketchup-stained tables.

We are happy sharing empty hours.

Happy to ignore time flickering there

by the bathroom, a cheap pine-scented snapshot

of the tangled Forest we have been.

I have discovered history is not my calling,

What I care about is memory,

This yawning gulf between us,

How we say each other’s names.

We gather around our questions every night,

They glint along the edges of our laughter,

Are reflected in grease-smeared mirrors and

I am starting to love them.

How many times will you and I meet here?

Letting milkshakes melt in favor of each other but

Only until dawn reddens the horizon,

Only until I am called into daylight,

Only until you are pulled back home.