Blue Angel Cafe

Coffee Shop
Next time I see him, I will have to ask
if he remembers that old coffee shop.
The one that charmed him just as he
had charmed me.
We found it by happenstance,
blessed by fortune’s coincidence on
the weekend of his birthday.
I remember I laughed at how much
I adored the name: Blue Angel Café.
And how fitting the name was
for such a heavenly place.
Snowflakes covered the wandering trails;
magical dust coating a path
to that quaint coffee shop we frequented
every day we remained
in the mountains.
I wonder if he reminisces about that
old-fashioned fireplace,
made of stones and warmth,
that smelled of forgotten forests and
stoic pine trees.
Does he still taste white chocolate whenever
he smells the faint scent of caffeine?
Does he know how his eyes shined as he
rested his feet atop the lacquered benches,
and how much I was falling for him amidst
the snow and shadows?
I was bewitched,
and whatever spell he had me under,
I knew I could stay in that coffee shop
for the rest of winter’s course.
If I see him again, I will have to ask
if he recalls the owner.
A British woman named Rosie,
who told us stories about her lost love,
and how he looked at me with such
adoration, and promised that our love
would last long after the winter;
long after we had wandered the path
away from that old-fashioned fireplace
and the white chocolate mocha that
made my tastebuds dance.
We remained there until the sun
fell to the moon’s reign,
and I knew right then, that I,
I was the sun,
he, the moon,
he, my better half,
my counterpart,
and somewhere in the expanse
I knew the world was far
better off because of our love.
And the stars were shining.
-Samantha Prasad

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