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A Café Latte, no foam.
A swirl of extra cream.
It’s funny the things that remind me.
Half a cascade of chocolate.
That little dash of cinnamon.
It’s unpredictable what jogs my memory.
A pinch more sugar…
Pause for a sip, please?
That perfection?
Perfection within imperfection?
The scent of pastries.
Sweet, flaky, confectionaries.
Warm.
Smooth.
The taste of innocent love.
My own thoughts surprise me.
The color of your skin.
Mocha?
Latte?
No.
Cappuccino?
Perhaps.
Swirls of cinnamon.
Cinnamon swirls.
Swirls of bitter spice rising.
Rising to the top.
His hair.
His eyes.
His lashes.
The soft fuzz on his upper lip.
It’s funny what reminds me.
It’s funny what reminds me of him.
The sweet scent of this café.
The warmth of the air.
They remind me of him.
A year younger?
Two years younger?
A romance interrupted.
I glance to my left.
A small flame in the pastry oven.
Others dash quickly, but I do not shy away.
I am drawn in.
He is left behind the retro counter.
The smell of burnt pastries.
The warmth of the flame.
Sadness.
Something cold in my heart.
I turn to see.
The memory.
The memory of my innocent love.
The memory vanishing almost completely.
I turn back to the flame.
I am torn between two passions.
Between two suitable lovers.
Sweetly bitter.
Sensationally awkward.
Too much smoke.
I begin to cry.
It’s unpredictable the things that remind me.
The things that remind me of him.
Half a cascade of chocolate.
A dash of cinnamon.
I wish I could tell you his name.
He is my cupcake.



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