At the Diner

We're sitting in the diner at two am.

I don't care that it's late. I care about being with you, looking into your emerald eyes.

You have a gap in your teeth. Or so the others say. I don't see it. 

I fell in love with the way that you called me beautiful, lovely.

We're sitting at a table near the window. The air conditioner blows on my right leg.

It's freezing in this diner. It shouldn't be. It's August. 

You offer me your sweater. It's from GAP. 

I take it. I smile. 

You paid for me. I got an Americana Burger. It had a egg on it. 

The yolk ran off the side of the burger.

You told me how your dad used to be a kitchen boy when he was younger. 

I don't really care about him. I care about you. 

I still listen. I love you. 

You rub your thumb against my pant leg. 

And then dissapear.

I wait for your call. Your mom said that you'd only left for the night, that this is normal for you.

I can't stop worrying, that something had happened. 

All I had left was your green GAP jacket. I wanted my boy back.

Because I love you. And you haven't come back to Jacksonville for a year.