by Mia Poirier
The first time I saw you was in front of the metro,
you brought me a Styrofoam cup of instant coffee,
powdered milk and two arms to carry my bags.
I brought you a plastic box of stale macarons
from the bakery I used to work at but quit.
My apartment was locked and I forgot my keys
so we sat outside playing iPod games for kids,
sweaty fingers tapping the screen, sliding.
Our knees touched, our thighs touched
and the carpet rubbed cat hair on our pants.
The macarons were dry in our mouths,
salted caramel, vanilla, lemon and black forest.
By the time the door was unlocked for us,
we had forgotten our dry lips, our sweaty fingers.