GRIEF Poem: We both had croissants for lunch at Wildflour Restaurant, by Tresia Traqueña

It wasn’t your favorite French toast—
breakfast had already slipped away
when we met, almost a month
before you left my hometown.
We didn’t care about anything
aside from the gazes we exchanged.
How much have you missed me?
Tell me in words,
not by brush of your closest finger
against mine. We smiled
when croissants came to us
to fill the gaps
of silence,
of our days
without having
a word.

How was your croissant?

I never spoke of this before
remembering the sounds
which aren’t in either of our native languages.
It’s alright
was your preffered phrase.
You’re alright
so you just took one.
I never cared to take the other again.

How could I eat
even when I was starving?
It was never adobo
and you’re alright.
I do not doubt that you came
from an eight-hour flight
before work and before we met.

How’s your trip in New Zealand?
You told me stories
I had never heard last week
and never had the chance
to ask
but never answered.

You mentioned of many things:
you’ll migrate to Europe,
you missed snowboarding,
you hopped in the bar
with your best friend.
You enjoyed
talking you.

I cut my croissant in half
with this gentle knife.
The butter kissed the halves,
I finished one slowly
while I was chewing flour
to loose its wilderness.

Yet, I am never full.