Coffee with the Boy I Used to Be

I met my younger self for coffee today.

He sat there swinging his legs, eyes too bright.

I lit a cigarette — he pushed the ashtray away.

“Why would you burn yourself,” he asked,

“when the world already tries so hard?”

I spoke of money, of rent, of running late.

He spoke of sketches, of stars, of fate.

I showed him my watch — gold, heavy, proud.

He pulled out drawings of castles in the clouds.

I laughed at his innocence,

he cried at my tired smile.

I told him love fades, people leave.

He told me, “then you never learned how to believe.”

“Did we change the world?” he asked,

hope trembling in his voice.

I stared at the coffee, bitter and black,

and whispered, “No… life made the choice.”

We both fell silent.

Two strangers at the same table.

Two souls beneath the same skin,

but only one still able to dream.