Funny how you melted over iced latte and americano.
Beads of perspiration collected on the glass, and later
your face. Your lips were as cool as silverware,
even if the brews were acidic and cream too thick.

But our smooth conservations burned into grinds,
frustrated dissonance in a room too busy to hear or care
while a steamy roast turned into a half-empty cup, cold.

The coffee counter moves on, constantly changing.
We return our used items to be washed and used again.
If we sit down and order nothing, the cafe will kick us out.
When neither one pays, we leave for other places.

This poem is included in The Sophomore Year Experience poetry compilation.


About Amy

Amy is a freelance writer and artist based in LA. Her hobbies include romanticizing her world, having too many moody thoughts, and wandering through neighborhoods she's never been in.
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