At The Ikon For The Last Time

Alone at the Ikon
for the very last time,
staring at a young red head.
Eyes like chocolate.
Lips like fire.
Chatting politely with her parents.

The kitchens a buzz
as freshly washed plates
slide across the table
calmly waiting for their turn,
much like kids in line at
Six Flags, just without all the noise.

My mocha's nearly empty
as the back party room.
Ocuppied only by two lovers
hands entwined under the table.

The flowers on the table
remind me of Brenham at Easter,
laying among the Bluebonnets
on long holiday weekends.

This isn't how goodbye is
supposed to go.
All the lonely times and
semi-hot coffee.
A place to call home for
an hour every couple nights.
Safety from all the bars
and occasional rain storm.

I'm caught between dreams
and a foreign country.
A white walled lover
who's name I won't forget.