Unsaid

In a coffee shop on Calhoun St.
we escape the icy January air
with cups of peppermint hot chocolate
and warm conversation.
I make a casual joke, sparking a giggle from her
that lights a kindle inside me every time.
But the words I want to say take shelter
in the back of my throat,
too bashful to spill out on their own,
instead taking back seat to safer subjects
like the stories we've written,
or her wanderlust:
the places she's been,
and where she wants to go.
All the while, I watch her face,
the snow still thawing in her crimped hair,
wishing that I could follow her on her quest.
But while I'm unable to do so,
I know that she's not leaving me out in the cold,
and we'll always have
the peppermint hot chocolate.