Breton

I remember sitting here before;

Remembering I had sat here before,

Promising I would never find

Myself back here, sitting and

Remembering.

 

This voice

Can no longer utter a sentence

Without a 

Coffee-laden, smoky wheeze.

 

These movements are slower now,

More clumsy,

Though perhaps they are the same

As before, and it is 

This place

That has become clumsier and slower.

 

Is this the last time

I will sit here,

Lost in memory?

Taking a capuccino?

 

Or will this place come once again

To me, unbidden,

As so many times before?

 

This time,

Will you come,

As you did, that first time,

A haycart loaded with

Curiousity and irresistable Accusations?

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