Into a café, near the cinema, in Vilamoura,
a woman in her fifties came.
She looked her years, the firmness of youth
gone to fat.

Something about her eyes though, reminded
me of someone I once loved.
When she ordered a coffee I had no doubt,
it was Mary my first romance.

If she remembers me? Will I look as old
as I find her to be. Our eyes met and linked
for a long time, none of us smiled.

Abruptly she left, never drank her coffee and
I didn’t bother to follow her.
The chasm too deep picked up my paper and tried to read.