We ran out, of money, of time.
Goodbye.
The noisy coffee house,
warm, and crowded with laughter.
I had cappuccino and his was espresso.
The poet talked of dreams,
and hot lovers.
The guitar played softly, sadly,
we didn't want to end.
His eyes were blue, so blue,
and mine were dry,
I couldn't cry.
But I howled at the moon.