tom's diner

I saw your book today.
Recalling the crisp the days of winter.
of eating notes in a diner, and reading sighs off of our
runny eggs and coffee.
I remember what it felt like to drink your pages one by one.
As if each sip was made just for me.

Then again, I always knew I was never
special enough to be admired your world.
No dedication, introduction, or prologue in prose.
Never meant to be more than a
segue or stepping stone into a
greater unknown.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t
me,
maybe it was you.