“The Cafe Terrace on the Place du Forum by Vincent Van Gogh” by Shawna Dyer

Your face shown yellow

and blushing
like steak cooked rare on the plate
in front of you.

Night was nearly endless.

It felt like we sat there


barely touching our food.
Constantly touching each other.

hand caressed mine then left.
I found
it between my thighs,
over my dress.

I wanted to know you
like a book.
I wanted to read
your non-existent autobiography.

People looked at us like

We dined with forks too big for our
hands and

French wines we could
not pronounce taught us the meaning
of sucking marrow out of life.

Yellow flickered out and we knew
the time to meander home was now.

You contemplated a cigarette in your
fingers as if it could have decided
your fate in that very moment.

Smoking it anyway, you asked me
why Copernicus or Galileo
hadn’t named a star after me.

I told you it was because I was born
of centuries later.

And I am also not beautiful enough
to carry such a title.

Straight into my eyes,
you told me I was the oldest soul
you had ever met.