I meet you again at our old neighborhood bakery. I refuse to return to right person wrong time.

I hear your laugh cross our old neighborhood bakery before I see you.

I carry warm sugar on my sleeve between us when our eyes meet.

I see a bent recipe card resting in your palm.

I understand that I need timing to stop deciding for us.

I remain beside you as the new owner uncovers our names beneath the counter.

I ask the smallest question with the largest history.

I see your fingers tighten around a bent recipe card.

I remember your thumb tracing calm into my wrist.

I resent the body for keeping what the future refused.

I place right person wrong time between us and ask you not to soften it.

I watch apology gather behind your teeth.

I touch a bent recipe card to keep my hands from reaching for you.

I follow your words until they reach what you decided.

I understand the wound when our love is ready while our lives are not.

I breathe through the second that rearranges us.

I move toward the flour storeroom because the room has become too small.

I freeze as your palm finds the center of my back.

I let our foreheads nearly touch.

I hold still while your final words gather.

I reach for you inside our old neighborhood bakery, but our love is ready while our lives are not.