They sit in jeans and drink their coffee, black
As kohel on their eyes. They pour their tales
Of broken romance through a sieve: the words,
While cardamom in flavor, are in English.
Today they've met outside of a café;
Their work is done and each is going home.
It's here they punctuate each other's day
With stories, lively jokes, and cigarettes.
The mood is soft, the laughter not so strong.
The talk is dominated by their thoughts
Of home, to which there's no return: like love
That's lost and leaves a stinging sadness there
To bite the heart without a kind of warning.
The one who's lost most recently then sighs.
Her hands are silent, her head turned away
As she speaks in words with orange blossom scent:
The angel I believed was always here
Has flown to heaven and I now must cope
Alone with love that's in a different tongue
I understand too well to misinterpret.