Petit Café

It wasn’t bitterly cold that season –
The chrysanthemums were boasting in their bloom,
But my fingers fancied holding my sixth cup of mint tea
As I was watching people;
The children holding hands
Near the fountain where
a lady holding a book threw a coin into,
The birds picking up the crumbs
left behind by the old man sitting on the bench,
The madly in love couples
placing locks on the bridges’ barriers.
The smell of coffee and croissants and music
filled that petit café.
I noticed the framed posters of the classic theatre productions –
And that was when you walked in
With your long hair and content smile,
You were late,
But I forgave you as soon as your warm hands held mine.
We walked and walked;
You were mischievously plucking flowers
To only innocently place them in my hair,
And laughing at the least humorous remarks.
There was a magic within you –
I was the lucky one to witness it,
As all that was occurring around us slowed down
To hear the trees subtly rustle their golden leaves,
The sun dimming its light
Allowing the stars to appear
And I was still holding your hand.

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