The past melted his face.
He’s sitting next to the magazines,
with their perfect, blotch-free faces;
but theirs don’t tell a story
his is rich,
full of life’s offerings,
but their faces seem empty,
because they are full of themselves;
he looks out of the window,
smiles at the sky,
those faces pose a scowl,
trying to breed envy,
with their perfect void.
He’s staring into the eyes of a beautiful girl now,
who sees his past—
like we all do—
“I know you are not that.”
They hold hands across two coffee cups,
the bridge that didn’t burn.
She laughs at something he says.
How lonely those faces appear now,
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