The Barista

I come in for chai and your shy smile. In my daydreams I slip you a poem inside my empty mug. I ask you out to a bookstore, instead of out for coffee, because even I'm not that cruel. You say yes because I’m the regular who orders chai with soy and always says thank you. We talk about Keats and comic books, both pretending we know a lot about each. When I take you home, because the quickest way to my bed is through my mind, I finally get to brush those lazy strands away from your eyes. When we wake up, your smile is for me and everything we did last night. But things go stale, like coffee left standing. You finally discover I am impossible to please. So the love goes bad and I put angry notes inside your refrigerator so you're forced to read them before you pour your morning orange juice, telling you that I never loved your smile. Because sometimes I am that cruel. So when I come in for chai, it's better for both of us if I keep my dreams to the page, and leave all my mugs empty when I'm done.