A crush on the Barista.

A tale as old as coffee shops themselves, if I’m not mistaken.

An old and tired one frankly.

 

This is her place of business.

I mean no disrespect.

I keep my mouth shut, for fear of other people’s bullshit,

derailing my own.

 

Latte art and conversation with strangers.

Oh, to have that kind of confidence.

Oh, to be that beautiful.

Couldn’t be me…

 

Hair dye so bright, I could see it from the parking lot

A smile I look forward to. Forced or not.

It might very well be creepy, writing about someone in front of me.

As long as I keep my mouth shut, who’s to know?

 

I know her name.

I know her face.

but I do not know her.

Yet here I am, dreaming like a little boy again.

Feeling guilty as charged.

 

Such is the life,

of a mind spent spinning.

A snowball of assumptions, locking me in place,

Just to pull me back to my car, alone,

To be high and just sit.

 

This time with no one who’s pretty to look at.