Bosnian Coffee--a poem born of an idea a stole from another poem--see if you can figure it out!

Twilight would ruin this moment I thought as I
held the saucer over the table between
us, remaining still as you poured the Bosnian coffee
in. I am reminded that you are reminded of your mother,
her clear, Wal-Mart wedge heels now torniquets to the feet my
palm begrudgingly caressed and cushioned
as the aforementioned twilight checked in the for the night. Then
we fucked, if I remember correctly. No, you didn't want to; we
walked when we should have been running scared shitless for our lives
along a busy, relentless highway--in other words, we just messed around.

And I don't have a problem with that, I suppose. I had said before that
we worked better than "you" and "I" and nothing could
make the simplicity of this encounter insignificant, though
it does not seem to be going anywhere. Now, the irony: you looked
up and opened your mouth to speak. "I chose this coffee
as the beverage this morning, because I wanted you to be awake; you know,
we were up very late. We can have our times. I know I said I wanted this to
go further..." you trail off, extending your hand toward mine, then retracting. "Go
along with this, please. I can't allow myself to love you right now."